#ill be drowning in my tears

[perrrrrrj]

ricky bobby you’ll always be a legend

[blurmyface4]

I have Thalassophobia

But you made me forget that

Your eyes are the colour of the atlantic sea

And the dark look you get sometimes

Reminds me of the storms and the sea

As one

Your personality is like the atlantics as well

Unpredictable like it

I fear the ocean

The place where the titanic sank

Just like us

I have a fear of the ocean

Yet i was ready to jump right in the deep

I loved you

I jumped right into your sea loving self

But everything was dark

Like the atlanctic at night

Not even a flashlight could save me.

I almost drowned when i was 9

And i am deadly scared of drowning

Of sharks coming near me

But the sea now

Is the only way to get close to you

The titanic might have sank

No one forgets about that ship

And i wont forget ours

Even though im still scared of the atlantic

When i go live by the sea one day

I'll tell it all about you

About us

Maybe it will help me

my bloody demon<3

P.s..i am really fucking scared of the sea...drowning is so not fun!

[little-big-boo-and-a-rat]

Alkaid you incorrigible self sacrificial bastard

[swaying--daisies]

Omg omg omggg i caann’t 😭

This song is the most Beatles song I’ve ever heard and it’s such a wonderful homage and testament to their Time defying genius, innovation and bond, from Then until Now 🥲

John’s timeless vocals :(

Ringo’s iconic “1, 2, 3, 4” :(

George’s “Something” and “My Sweet Lord” guitar solos :(

The “If I Fell” drumming :(

The “Across the Universe” and “The End” harmonies :(

The “Martha my Dear” piano :(

The “Walrus” and “She’s Leaving Home” orchestra swell and staccato string that reminds us that George Martin really was the indispensable fifth Beatle :(

The tambourine from the early songs :(

The psychedelic eastern inspired strings :(

Paul in the back, harmonizing with John, so recognizable on the Love You 🥲 (because that’s the simplest and purest representation on their relationship and legacy, and really that’s so much of what this song is about 😭)

So many different eras and musical pioneering moments, so much individual creativity and collaboration and love that makes the Beatles absolutely magical, captured in one song 🥲 how is this allowed 😭

[spaghetticat3899]

FYI, on a serious note/update, I might be more/less active over the next… however long. Penny, my cat, might not be around by the end of tomorrow, and it’s gonna make me extremely upset.

I’ve had her and Boogs since they were kittens, I’ve had 16 years of them within my sapient life, and I cannot imagine her absence. She’s been unwell the last month or two, and I was hoping she was gonna come back from it, but she’s the worst I’ve ever seen her today; she can’t even eat. My mother even hinting that we might have to let her go opened the floodgates, and I haven’t been this emotional and stressed in a long while, not like this anyway.

I love you, Penny, and I hope you know that, even if I can’t tell you. I love your meow, your sweetness, your cuddles, your pretty eyes and fur, and I love you for all the memories we had together. To some you might just be a cat, but you were my best friend, my family, and I can’t imagine my world without you there. Thank you.

[transgenderdragons]

this happens all the time. and i can't help but think i'll die alone. i know you don't work here anymore. i know you don't work here anymore. i know you don't work here anymore. i know you don't work here anymore. i know you don't work here anymore (anymore). i know you don't work here anymore (anymore). sometimes, i think i'll die alone sometimes, i think i'll die alone sometimes, i think i'll die alone live and breathe and die alone sometimes, i think i'll die alone sometimes, i think i'll die alone sometimes, i think i'll die alone i think i'd love to die alone. just (just) take (take), i think i'd love to die. me (me) down (down), i think i'd love to die. just (just) take (take), i think i'd love to die. me (me) down (down), i think i'd love to die alone i think i'd love to die alone i think i'd love to die alone i think i'd love to die alone live and breathe and die alone i think i'd love to die alone i think i'd love to die. alone. i think i'd love to die alone

[darthteeth]

URGENT!!!Help Abdul Salam Al-Anqar and his family get through this war in Gaza!!!

(URGENT) THEY ARE AT €3,445 OUT OF €50,000 GOAL

I was asked by @nader5555 to make this, if u cannot donate please please share this post. Copy pasted from a message i was sent:

"Only a Few Hours Left Before We Enter Our First Year of War, Genocide, Starvation, and Displacement A Final Plea from the Heart of Hell: Save Us Before Hope Dies 💔🔥 I am Abdel Salam, and I have nothing left but words written by a trembling hand ✍️. The war has not only destroyed our lives; it has taken everything from us. Our home, which was once our refuge, is now a pile of rubble 🏚️.

My car, my only source of livelihood, was destroyed in a sudden strike 🚗, and the work that sustained us is now a distant memory 💼. Today, I live in an endless nightmare. Under a sun that burns everything in its path 🌞🔥, my family and I sit in a worn-out tent, a tent that shields us neither from the summer heat nor the winter cold ❄️. Insects 🦟 invade the place, diseases consume our bodies 🩺, and my younger siblings cry from hunger and thirst 🍞💧. We have no clean water or a crumb of bread to ease our hunger. Each passing day deepens the weight of this hell we live in.

My Daughter Eman is Dying from Malnutrition 😨 My daughter Eman suffers from malnutrition; I have nothing to feed or treat her with. The deterioration of her health is killing me slowly. Every glance in her eyes, every pain she endures, crushes my heart 💔. How can I explain to her that what was once our hope has now turned into nothing but a mirage? The Night Only Adds to Our Pain 🌙 The night does not bring us rest; it only adds to our pain. We sleep on hard ground, feeling the cold in every bone of our bodies 🥶, with nothing but pieces of cardboard 📦 to cover us. My wife Aya cries in silence 🥺 as she watches our daughter’s future fade before her eyes. My mother Eman suffers from illness and needs urgent medical care 🩺💊.

My Father Ahmed is Sick with Cancer and Needs Emergency Treatment My father Ahmed, who is sick with cancer, needs emergency treatment outside Gaza, and the cost of his treatment is at least $10,000, not including accommodation. As he suffers from severe pain, I cannot provide the treatment he needs due to our dire situation.

My Siblings Are in Constant Suffering ⚰️ My brother Omar was unable to continue his studies due to the situation. My brother Nader could not take his high school exams, and my younger brother Mohammad suffers from brittle bones and needs treatment we cannot afford. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the end. Death surrounds us from every side: if not from hunger 🍽️, then from illness 🦠. And if not from illness, then from the despair that devours our souls. Where is Humanity? Where is the World? 🌍💔 We want to leave the devastated Gaza Strip to escape the machinery of destruction and killing and the severity of hunger and poverty. The cost of travel for each person is $5,000, and we are a family of seven members, bringing the total cost to $35,000.

Where are the compassionate hearts? Are you waiting for us to disappear into the depths of this suffering? Are you waiting until death takes us before you act? We are drowning, and we don’t have enough strength to scream for help 🆘. Will you let this cry go unanswered? 😭 Your donation today is our last thread of hope. With the little support I received, I was able to buy a simple phone 📱 to reach out to you. But the bitter truth is that what I and my family need is much greater. We are not asking for much; just enough to save our lives from this hell 🔥. Every donation, no matter how small, could be the difference between life and death for us 👐. Don’t Let Us Disappear in the Darkness of Suffering 🌑 Don’t let our story end here. Be the light that guides us to salvation 🕯️✨.

With every tear, with every pain, I write this final plea to you, Abdel Salam."

taglist

@butchniqabi @xinakwans

@batekush

@appsa

@nerdyqueerr

@butchsunsetshimmer

@biconicfinn @stopmotionguy

@t4tvampireisms

@strangeauthor

@bryoria @shesnake

@legallybrunettedotcom

@lautakwah @sovietunion

@neechees @evillesbianvillain @antibioware

@akajustmerry @dizzymoods

@ree-duh @neptunerings

@explosionshark

@heritageposts

@ibtisams

@schoolteacher

[bunnis-monsters]

See you again

Male!Yandere!Vampire x Fem!Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 8th

Oct 7th

Oct 9th

summary: when a rich vampire suspects you are a reincarnation of his lover, you have no choice but to return with him to his manor and become his wife.

warnings: yandere behavior, breeding, dubcon, aphrodisiac venom

a/n: sorry this is so late I’ve had horrible writers block lately ><

Moonlight flickered through the stained glass window, casting a multicolored light across your plump frame.

You almost glowed, looking like an angel sent from above.

He had spotted you across the ballroom an hour ago.

The vampire usually never came to such things, but it was a particularly lonely night for him. About 20 years ago, his human lover died in his arms. A plague had swept across the town she lived, and he hadn’t been there quick enough to turn her before the illness took her life.

He had spent all that time in agony, drifting between thoughts of suicide and loathing, to moments of bliss when he’d remember how much he loved her… and she loved him.

Tonight was the anniversary of her death, and he figured he’d drown his sorrows in the blood of the rich and expensive alcohol.

Instead, he found you.

You were sitting at a table, your elegant gown ill fired on your plump frame. Your breasts were absolutely squished by the tight fabric, and his eyes were drab to your fat belly.

If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought you were her, his love, his everything. You had the same plump frame, eye color, hair the same texture and style…

God you were gorgeous… his pants tightened as he caught a whiff of your perfume.

The same scent she used to use.

He took in a deep breath before approaching you. Maybe a night of fun could… make him feel just a little bit better.

“Hello, beautiful…”

You didn’t look up, assuming he was talking to someone else. This made him pause for a moment before he walked closer and cleared his throat. “My lady, may I have a word with you?”

When your eyes met his, he nearly teared up. He felt an instant spark, his undead heart soaring. You had to be her, no one else had ever made him feel this way before!

“What is it you’d like to speak about?”

He sat down across from you, smiling. “How about you tell me your name?”

The two of you spent the next hour making idle small talk, with him leading most of it. You were shy and soft spoken, much like you had been in your previous life.

You had borrowed a dress from your cousin to attend this party in hopes of finding a decently wealthy husband, an order given to you by your father. That explained why your gown was ill fitting. The man frowned deeply, his fangs threatening to peek out from his lip.

He would be making sure you wore only the finest of fabrics from now on, each dress and outfit custom made to suit your figure. Gods, he wanted to undress you right now more than anything…

But things like this were a process. He didn’t want to hurt or scare you so badly that you tried to flee, and he would rather you home with him willingly. Scaring you would have to wait until you were reliant on him…

So instead he listened to your woes and leaned forward. As long as he could get close enough to your neck to deliver a bite, he could bring you home with him…

“So your father’s business isn’t doing well, I assume?”

You nodded shyly, playing with a bit of lace on your dress. “That’s why he wants me to marry quickly while he still has his status… he hopes that my future husband will support him financially enough to keep the business afloat.”

“How troublesome, being stuck in the middle of this…”

He reached out to caress your cheek, shivering when he made contact with your soft skin. “Mmm… wouldn’t it be nice to get away from it all?”

You were about to say something, but he spoke over you. “Come with me, my love… perhaps I can do something to help.”

Your eyes lit up. He was dressed well, and people seemed to respect him enough to make way for him while you walked through the crowded ballroom to somewhere private! Maybe he could help your father…

But as he closed the door, something shifted. His eyes that had previously been a rich brown in color suddenly changed to be a startling ruby red.

“Oh, how I have yearned for you…”

He was on you in seconds, pinning you to the wall. You couldn’t even scream before his teeth were sinking into your neck, something thick and warm coursing through your veins.

“My venom will help this be a pleasant experience for you, my princess… gods…”

He shivered in pleasure, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he lapped up your blood. “Fuck, I missed you, I missed you so damn much…”

Tears fell down his face, his lips meeting yours in a feverish kiss. His fangs nipped at your tongue, but he didn’t seem to care. The man needed you more than anything.

He held onto you so tightly that your skin began to bruise. It had been decades since he had seen his lover, and going so long without you had been agony. Every night he lay awake, unable to sleep or even exist in peace without you by his side.

And now that he had you back… he wasn’t going to let you go.

It took only a moment for the aphrodisiac in his venom to kick in. Your body grew hot and weak, your pussy drenched within seconds. When he pulled down the zipper of your stress, you wiggled out of it and willingly clung to him.

“S-so warm… p-please… make it better…”

Your soaked panties against his bulge made him hiss. In his twisted, lovesick mind this proved to him that you were her. You wanted him, you loved him!

“Of course…” he purred, stroking your clit through the wet fabric. “Anything for you, I’d gather the stars and lay them at your feet if it meant you’d be happy, my love…”

Seeing your fat pussy for the first time in years was enough to have him rock hard.

Back before you died, you had always wished for children, but he was too stubborn, not wanting it. When he was ready, it was too late and you were gone.

He had regretted it ever since. How he yearned to see your belly swell with his baby, to fill you up with cum and make you a happy mother…

“My pretty girl…”

He rubbed his tip against your entrance. It was flushed an angry red, desperate to feel your gummy insides. “I love you… I love you so much…”

He pushed in, capturing your lips in a kiss as he fucked into your warm cunt. All he wanted now was to cherish and protect you, to lock you away and make sure no one but him got to even look at his beautiful girl.

They didn’t deserve you, didn’t have the honor of laying their eyes on you. Only he did.

He lost count of how many times he came inside of you. The aphrodisiac in his venom had you crying out and blubbering for more, desperate for his touch. It ands his chest will with bride to watch your belly bulge with his cum.

As he road home in his carriage with your exhausted body in his lap, he couldn’t help but rub your fat belly, a fond look in his eyes.

He was getting a redo, and this time he’d give you everything you wanted, treasure you even more than he had before.

And there was nothing you could do to convince him otherwise. You were his, bound to him by fate. Even if you had no memory of this man… it was no use.

You would be with him until the day you died… if he let you.

want more? I thought about expanding on this and making it more of a thought out story… I’ll do it if you send me a kofi! ><

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @sunset-214 @avalordream @atransmuter @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @sandramalikstyles-blog @anonymouskiwi @pedropascalbabygirl @flamefoxx @swasti8854 @an-ever-angry-bi

[sculpturesofanythinggoes]

always extremely weak for bands that take a bow after their set 🥺🥹

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Alien Escape

Male Alien Yandere × Gender Neutral Reader

(CW: Noncon, oviposition, breeding, overstimulation, crying, fear, minor character death, weird alien dick, minor mentions of medical experimentation (NOT on reader), alien, implied abduction, general yandere behavior)

Word Count: 680

(Just something I typed up on my phone because it was in my head and demanded to be written, a nice little mini-fic. Hope you enjoy!)

Tears streamed down your face, and your legs burned and ached from running so fast through the labyrinthine halls. Your frenzied footsteps on the cold tile floor were completely drowned out by the incessant blaring of the alarms.

When you slipped and broke the containment field, you had doomed everyone.

At last, you had made it to the exit. But it was covered by a heavier metal door with no handle.

Of course. The entire site was on lockdown now.

Maybe you could double back and hide in one of the abandoned rooms. If they weren't sealed off by now, too.

You ran off down a side corridor, but it was a dead end. Maybe it wouldn't come this way since it wasn't the way out.

Suddenly, the alarms and all the lights turned off. Probably sucked dry due to the escaped alien's ability to absorb energy.

You huddled into a corner in the darkness, nothing visible.

Then you saw light. Coming from far down the hall. The pale sickly green glow of the alien slowly approaching.

When he entered your field of view fully you gasped. He had a struggling Colonel Hughs in his arms, a hand over his mouth.

The alien slowly walked towards you and as he did so, he impaled Hughs with a spike that protruded from his wrists causing the colonel to rapidly age before turning to dust.

The alien had absorbed his life force.

It was humanoid, but had no eyes, nose, or mouth. Scars from "research" littered his body. Its wrist spike retracted back into itself as it slowly stepped towards you.

His strange ribbed cock poking out of his genital slit and lengthening as he approached.

It looked slimy and writhed as if with a will of its own. All while glowing with the same green light the rest of his body did.

You cowered and sobbed. You weren't ready to die. You weren't ready to die. You weren't ready to die.

And you weren't going to.

The alien had no intention to hurt you. He wanted you to be his incubator.

Out of all the people in the facility you were the only one he sensed any sympathy from. And no ill will. He only sensed regret and anxiety whenever your gaze landed on him.

It was the only modicum of kindness he experienced while being captured, contained, and experimented on.

He clung to it, focused on it. It was a lifeline for him.

And when you broke the containment unit he was housed in, he was convinced you had been purposefully trying to free him.

As he loomed over you, he could sense your fear. He gently wiped your tears away with his prehensile cock before pulling you up, turning you around, and pulling your pants down.

Yes~

This would do perfectly as a receptacle for his egg.

You begged and babbled, sure that he was about to turn you into dust.

When his slimy dick worked its way into you the noises you were making progressed into screams.

He put his hands carefully on your fragile human hips as his priggle writhed all around inside you, causing you to squirm and moan involuntarily in pleasure.

If he had a mouth your alien mate would have cooed at that sound.

The alien's dick molded itself to your inside perfectly, to kiss every little fold of your intimate depths, leaking viscous goo as it did so.

After your tenth forced orgasm from your otherworldly lover your legs finally gave out and he had to hold you close as he pumped one final time into you.

He deposited a large egg inside causing your tummy to bulge out, quite beautifully in his opinion.

The creature put his hand on your head and used his abilities to make you fell into a well earned sleep.

Green slime leaked from your entrance and down your legs when he pulled out of you.

It was a good thing you were a janitor, because once he had you back on his home world you'd be dealing with this mess daily.

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 16

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.5 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — unable to watch satoru turn to his abusive family for help with naoya's massive lawsuit, you're heading to his party against satoru's wishes, hoping to find something, anything, that might help his situation. but what happens when satoru decides to crash the party? and what will you find in that locked room?

author's note — hello lovelies, welcome back !! this chapter picks up right where we left off, but through satoru's eyes this time. also important note: this chapter contains a brief mention of SA concerning a background event not related to any of our main characters. as always, please mind all trigger warnings. and now enjoy the chaos <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

I saw her the moment I stepped into that goddamn party, and everything inside me went still. 

Like that moment right before you drown, when the water first fills your lungs and the world goes quiet. Terrifying and so still.

She stood there under those cheap neon lights, looking scared and yet so beautiful—beautiful in that terrible way that makes you want to destroy something, that makes you want to tear it apart just to prove it's real.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go to her, to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Away from this place, away from him, away from all of it. 

But I couldn't move. Couldn't let the mask slip, not here, not with all these eyes on me. So I plastered on that easy smile and played the part of the mildly annoyed professor who just happened to crash a student party.

As if my skin wasn't crawling with the need to use again, veins begging for something—anything—to take the edge off. As if the mere sight of her didn't make me feel like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my fucking heart out, her next breath away from something I might regret.

She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, and I saw the guilt there, swimming just beneath the surface. And for one horrible moment I thought, Good. Let it pull her under like it's pulling me. Let it fill her lungs the way fear is filling mine.

I almost hated her then — for lying to me again and again, for doing stupid things behind my back again and again, for making me feel this goddamn helpless again and again and again and fucking again.

But what lay beneath was worse. Because I knew why she was here. Always trying to save me, even if it meant throwing herself into the deep end, drowning right alongside me. And that's the worst kind of torture, isn't it? 

Watching the person you love cut themselves open on all your broken pieces, bleeding themselves dry, yet still reaching for more. And that thought made me want to scream.

"We'll talk about this later," I said, forcing that easy smile back onto my face though everything inside me was screaming to get her out of this goddamn house before she got herself into more trouble. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need a drink."

I pushed past her, shoulder grazing hers, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning back. Had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from saying something I couldn't take back. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did, and that was even worse.

Love and hate tangled together in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Because that's what she does to me — makes me feel everything at once, until I can't tell what's real anymore. Until I can't tell if I want to love her or ruin her. Until I can't remember which one would hurt more. Who I was before her. If I was anyone at all.

And it hit me then, as I left her standing there, all defiance and reckless stupidity and so unbearably precious it physically hurt—this must be what they mean when they say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Because I loved her so much it felt like hatred. Hated her so deeply it could only be love.

Always on the razor's edge. One wrong step, and we'd both bleed out. Maybe we already were.

When was the last time I even went to a party like this anyway? Years ago, probably. Back when I could still pretend I had my shit together. Before I understood what it meant to love someone so consuming that self-destruction became a form of worship.

I needed a drink. Maybe ten. Maybe something stronger. 

Bass thundered through the floorboards as I shouldered my way deeper into the house, some shitty pop track slamming in my skull. Or maybe that was just the rage still burning in my bloodstream.

Sweaty bodies pressed in on all sides, but I barely noticed, lost in the chaos raging in my head. Lost in the desperate need scratching at my throat to turn back, to find her, to make sure she hadn't slipped away like every other good thing in my life.

I ordered vodka. First sip burned, but not enough. Never enough to wash away the fear, to forget that she was here, in this house, with him. The same bastard who'd tried to—My grip tightened on the glass. Yeah. Definitely needed something stronger. Here's hoping these kids still remember how to party.

"Professor Gojo! No way!"

A group of my students appeared beside me at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. Aoi, of course—that kid was everywhere. And Miwa, looking starstruck as always. Just my fucking luck.

"Is this what you all do instead of studying for my exams?" I asked, letting that easy smile slide into place.

"Come on, Prof, we've been killing ourselves over your damned hard exams," Miwa chimed in, all bright eyes and alcohol courage. "We deserve a break."

I let myself slip into the familiar role. The cool professor. The guy everyone wants to hang with. It was easier than I expected, letting their drunken energy wash over me, cracking jokes, making them laugh. Almost enough to wash out the withdrawal that made it nearly impossible to think straight. Almost enough to forget why I was really here. Almost.

Aoi was rambling about something, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I turned slightly, catching her gaze across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. Funny, how we wanted the same thing sometimes.

My woman. My stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating woman. Even now, with me watching her from across the room, I could see that defiance bright in her eyes. Even now, even here, in defiance of everything I'd asked of her, she stood her ground. 

It was admirable, really. And sometimes, that very defiance made me want to break her. Perhaps only to prove I could. To prove she wasn't in control. Perhaps because I was terrified that I wasn't. That I never was.

It's terrifying how thin that line is.

"See? Fucking legend!" Aoi raised his beer, at something I said, I think. I can't remember. Something clever, probably. Something that fits the role. "To the coolest professor on campus!" 

I raised my glass, I think. I can't remember. And that's when I caught sight of them by the front entrance. Suguru walked up to her, still standing where I'd left her, and cradled her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. My god, could he be any more obvious about it?

I knew that look in his eyes. Had seen it countless times before, during all those long hours in the lab when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he'd lean in close to check her work, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment too long. The way his eyes would follow her every move.

My best friend, in love with the love of my life. What a sick fucking joke.

He was examining her face now, probably making sure she was alright, being the good, caring friend he always was. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and something violent stirred in my gut. Because she didn't pull away. Of course she didn't. She never did, not with him.

They looked good together, standing there in the dim light. The brilliant researcher and his gifted student. No addiction between them. No sharp edges that sliced you open if you got too close. And I hated that.

I watched as she placed her hand over his, the gesture unbearably tender. Watched as he smiled down at her, that gentle smile he reserved only for her.

And just for a moment — one single, agonizing moment — I let myself picture a world where I hadn't reached her first. Where she'd chosen him instead. The better man. The one who'd never drag her down into his own personal hell.

The thoughts spiraled darker, louder, until I could barely breathe through the noise. Glass creaked under my grip. I needed a fucking pill. Needed something, anything, to make this stop. To make everything just fucking stop.

"Professor?" Miwa’s voice. "You okay?"

More students crowded the bar, blocking my view of them. One of them—what was his name? Third-year, not a complete idiot—shoved another beer into my hand. I chugged it in one long pull, their chatter fading to background noise.

"Well." That voice. That fucking voice. "Look who decided to crash my party after all."

I turned, meeting Naoya's scarred face with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Zenin. Quite the gathering you've got here."

"Indeed." He signaled the bartender. "I gotta say though, I'm surprised to see you here, Professor. Don't tell me you're playing chaperone tonight?"

His words stripped away any pretense. He knew. Of course he fucking knew why I was really here. Not that I'd been particularly subtle about it.

"Just felt like reliving my youth," I said, taking the drink he offered. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from finishing what I'd started with his face.

Zenin's smirk widened, the scars pulling his flesh into something even uglier. "Ah yes, the good old days. Back when teachers knew their place and didn't go around screwing their students."

The fake smile slid off my face, the glass creaking in my grip as I pictured how easily his windpipe would crumple under my hands. How satisfying it would be to watch that smirk disappear for good.

"Careful, Zenin. Your face is already fucked up enough as is. Would be a damn shame if something happened to what's left of it."

He laughed, the sound grating on my last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. "Always so protective. But tell me, Professor, does she know the real reason you're here? Does she know about the—"

"Enough," I bit out.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" His eyes flicked across the room, landing on her. The way he looked at her made my vision bleed red around the edges. "She really is something else, isn't she? Too bad I didn't get a chance to get her alone that night—"

My hand lashed out before I could think, fisting in his collar. The fabric bunched in my grip as I hauled him close enough to see my own fury reflected in his eyes. "You fucking—"

Then Suguru was there, his hand slamming down on the bar between us. Silent, steady—a wall between me and a one-way ticket to unemployment. He didn't say a word, just fixed me with that look. The one I'd explicitly asked for earlier. Stop me before I do something I'll regret.

Fuck, I was really starting to regret that request right about now.

Then I felt her—her touch impossibly gentle as she laid her hand on my bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through my shirt. She leaned in close, "Satoru, can we talk for a minute?"

Her soft plea sliced through the haze, and suddenly I became acutely aware of the deafening silence that had fallen over the room, of the countless eyes boring into us.

I uncurled my fingers from Naoya's collar one by one, even though everything in me screamed to finish what I'd started. To paint the walls with whatever was left of his face. But I couldn't. We both knew. So I stepped back and followed her.

─── ·✧· ───

She led me through the crowd, her fingers still wrapped so gently around my arm. We pushed our way past the prying eyes, down a hallway, until she found what looked like an empty office. Probably belonged to Naoya's father, judging by the dark wood and that rich people smell.

For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us willing to shatter the fragile silence. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, turning everything silver and strange, like we were underwater. Maybe we were. I wasn't sure anymore. Her hand slipped from my arm, and suddenly I felt cold.

I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the leather groaning under my weight. She stood silhouetted at the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, and I had to look away. Had to focus on something else, because I knew one glance at those eyes and I'd break.

My fingers found the pill on their own. Out of habit, really. Without thinking, I snatched up the silver letter opener next to me and crushed the pill beneath it, watching the powder scatter across the polished wood like fresh snow. I bent down and let the burn fill my nose, sear through my brain, numbing everything in an instant. 

When I looked up, she was staring. Always fucking staring, with eyes that flayed me to the bone. And she did it so effortlessly. Saw through everyone around her with that unnerving precision. Or maybe she saw through everything so clearly because she looked for the very things she wanted to hide from others.

"That's new," she said. Not an accusation. I was glad it wasn't.

"It's faster."

I averted my gaze and sank deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest as warmth flooded my veins and the ceiling blurred and shifted above me. And then everything went soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.

A long exhale escaped my lips. Finally—fucking finally—the constant noise in my head, all that shit I can't shut up—the love, the hate, the fucking terror of it all—it faded to a whisper. The world got a little quieter, a little less sharp. A little more bearable.

For one perfect moment, I could actually breathe. Could almost convince myself I was in control. That this wasn't killing me. That I could walk away if I had to. That I wasn't fucking terrified of losing her. Of becoming him. Of everything.

I groaned, fingers raking through my hair, pulling, needing the pain. My hands were shaking again. Or maybe they never stopped. I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're angry," she said.

"No shit. What gave it away?" I scrubbed my hands over my face. "You showing up here after I specifically fucking told you not to? Or me nearly rearranging Zenin's face again?"

"Satoru—"

"Don't." I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers yanking at my hair again, trembling worse now. From the drugs, the rage, the fear, who the fuck knew. It all bled together these days. "You have no idea what he'd do. If something happened—" I stopped. Couldn’t continue.

"I'm not alone," she said, like that made a difference. "Maki, Yuta, Toge—they're all with me. We're being careful."

"Careful?" I sat upright, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "There's nothing fucking careful about this! It's reckless! You shouldn't even be—"

"I'm doing this for you—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't make this about me."

"But it is!" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What, you expect me to just stand by and watch? While you fall apart?"

"This isn't your problem to fix—"

"Like hell it isn't!" Another step. Her eyes seared into mine. "I can't fucking take it anymore. You're in this mess because of me. Because you protected me that night. So don't you dare tell me this isn't my problem to fix."

I stared at her, something in my chest fracturing. "You think that's why I'm doing this? Because I feel obligated?"

"I think you're trying to protect me, like you always do."

"Then don't make me protect you all the goddamn time!" I shoved up from the chair and braced my hands on the desk. "I beat him within an inch of his life that night. I would've killed him if—" My throat closed around the words. "And I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. That's what scares the shit out of me. What I become when it comes to you."

She went still.

"And if he hurt you again," the words scraped out of me, "I—I don't know what I'd do. So please. Just please don't make me find out."

I said the words I'd been turning over in my head for what felt like eternity. Don't make me find out, don't put yourself in danger, don't break my fucking heart. Which really meant break me all you want, just don't leave. I wouldn't survive it.

Her gaze dropped briefly to my hands, and she said, "You done?" 

Her question threw me. Done? God, this infuriating woman. But then I followed her line of sight and saw my hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the desk’s edge. I slowly released them, my knuckles cracking in the sudden stillness.

I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, defeated, throwing an arm over my eyes. "God, I fucking hate you." The way she stood there, unflinching, unafraid—it made me insane. "I hate that you make me feel like this—so fucking terrified all the time."

"You don't hate me," she said.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure anymore," I answered.

How does it never get easier, I wondered. Loving her. Needing her. It just cuts deeper, spreads further, until I'm drowning in the ache. Until I can't breathe without feeling it in my lungs. And yeah, I hate her for that sometimes.

I couldn't look at her. I knew she'd be there, unyielding, waiting, enduring everything I threw at her, as she always did. Never breaking. Maybe that's what I hated most.

"You're so fucking stupid," I breathed, but it came out wrong. Too soft. Too much like 'I love you'. Too much like 'Please don't leave.' 

"I think that's mutual." She crossed the room then and leaned against the desk, arms folded over her chest. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

I lowered my arm and looked at her. "No, you're not."

"I am sorry for worrying you," she tried again, and I almost believed her, wishing desperately that she'd never have to worry about anything the way I worry about her. "Go ahead, say it. Tell me how stupid I was to come here. I know you're dying to."

"Why would you think that?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because it's true. I make the wrong choice every fucking time."

I watched her, this brilliant, stubborn woman that I love so much, beating herself up over choices that weren't really choices at all—just impossible situations with no right answers. Like there was ever a right answer. And sometimes she reminded me so much of myself. As if I hadn't spent years doing the same thing, and probably still do.

But seeing her do it—it was like staring into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection, but the reflection of everything I hated about myself.

"I think that's mutual," I echoed her words back to her.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed up from the chair, gripping the edge of the desk for a second. Then I reached for her, hands landing on her hips, tugging her close, needing her close. My lips ghosted over hers. Hesitant. Unsure. When she didn't pull away, I kissed her. My hand came up to cradle her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone as I deepened the kiss.

"Alright, what's the plan?" I murmured against her mouth.

She told me about the locked room upstairs and her plan to get it. So calm. She told it so calm. Like it was that simple. Like this wasn't the most insane thing I'd ever heard. But I knew she'd go through with it no matter what I said.

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you anywhere near him with alcohol involved?"

"No," she said. "I think you're going to help me."

"Times like this, I'm really feeling that age difference between us," I said, but we both heard the resignation in my voice. The moment I'd already lost this fight.

"So you'll help?" she asked, ignoring my comment.

Before she could celebrate her victory, I yanked her closer, fingers twisting in her hair. With a sharp tug, I forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet my gaze, her throat bared. Our eyes locked, and I saw the instant her breath hitched.

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"When we get home, you're gonna make it up to me for all the stress you've caused. Got it?"

"Is that really how you want to play this?"

"Oh, love, I think we're way past propriety at this point."

A shiver ran through her — one that made me almost smile. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, could feel the way she melted into me despite herself. It almost made this whole mess worth it.

"Now then." I pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. "let's have some fun, shall we?"

─── ·✧· ───

So, here's the fun story about how I ended up playing beer pong with my arch-nemesis (besides Sukuna, that is) against my future lovely wife and some chemistry nerd who wouldn't shut up about covalent bonds. Not exactly the Saturday night I had in mind.

I mean, here I was, standing next to Naoya — yeah, the same guy whose face I'd rearranged a few months back — trying to aim at red plastic cups while you were absolutely wiping the floor with us. Turns out that whole '10 years of grief training in alcoholism over your dead father' wasn't just a cute phrase you threw around. Who would've thought?

But really, trying to out-drink an opioid addict? That's like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. Except the fish is in heavy withdrawal. So like, with no fin. Not my finest analogy. I blame the alcohol. What was my point again?

Anyway. Most annoying part? This chemistry department kid with these wide, bright eyes wouldn't stop talking to you about molecular structures. And you were actually entertaining him. At a party. About electron transfers. Of all the insufferable things.

"So if you consider the aromatic compounds—" he was saying, and I swear on my medical license, I didn't mean for the ball to hit him. And I definitely didn't mean for it to hit him that hard. Pure accident, really. 

The ball bounced off his shoulder, effectively shutting him up. They both turned to look at me. "Molecular restructuring in organic compounds? Really?" I shrugged. "At a party?"

She shot me that look. You know the one. The classic 'I-can't-believe-I'm-sleeping-with-this-idiot' glare. It's become quite familiar these days.

"Trouble in paradise?" Naoya said beside me, and I briefly considered rearranging his face again. For symmetry's sake, of course.

But then she bent over to pick up the ball, and suddenly organic chemistry was the furthest thing from my mind. I definitely shouldn't have let her leave the house in that skirt. Though knowing her, she probably wore it just to torture me. 

"Getting distracted, Professor?" she said, straightening up with that little smile that never fails to make me want to do wildly inappropriate things to her in very public places. She leaned across the table, deliberately tapping one of our cups with her finger, giving me her most innocent eyes. Because apparently, driving me insane was her new favorite pastime.

"Me?" I lifted the red cup she'd tapped to my lips, taking my sweet time with the drink, my eyes never leaving hers. "Never."

And somewhere in the haze of beer and the way she was looking at me, I tried to remember why the hell we were even here. Oh right—something about stealing keys. Real professional operation we've got going here. The medical board would be so proud. Their star surgeon, reduced to playing beer pong as a distraction tactic. 

Naoya's keys were right there on the table, practically screaming to be grabbed. But between her legs in that skirt and the way she kept biting her lip every time she lined up a shot, I found myself giving fewer and fewer shits about saving my career and more about how quickly I could get her alone. Priorities. I clearly had them. Alcohol might have scrambled them a bit, I guess.

I caught a glimpse of Suguru standing off to the side of the beer pong table. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her like he was watching the world's most stressful tennis match. I really owed him one for putting up with this shit.

Near the chemistry kid, a girl approached who looked a bit like Higurama's intern—though I wasn't entirely sure. She looked different, wearing makeup and dressed up. But that couldn't be her. She'd avoid places with flashing lights because of her epilepsy. I must be seeing things.

Then Naoya, because clearly this shitshow wasn't enough of a disaster already, decided to "level up the process." He snapped his fingers at a passing bartender, and before I could process what the fuck was happening, there was a tray of perfectly lined up tequila shots on the table. Complete with cinnamon and orange slices, because apparently, we're keeping it classy while trying to get my future wife drunk.

"New rule," Naoya announced, his scarred face pulling into what I can only assume was meant to be a grin. "Next shot I sink, you drink both. Beer and tequila."

I glanced over at her, my gut churning. Not from the alcohol—it'd take a hell of a lot more than this to get me there—but from the way she met Naoya's challenge with a nod. That stubborn tilt of her chin that always meant trouble. My palms started to sweat.

Of course, Naoya's ball dropped perfectly into her cup. Because the universe really does have a sick sense of humor.

Watching her reach for both drinks, I found myself wondering what the medical board would be more pissed about — me playing drinking games with students, screwing one of my students, or the fact that I was seriously considering murder. Again.

Then, by some physics-defying miracle or sheer dumb luck, the chemistry kid actually landed a shot. He looked as shocked as the rest of us when the ball plopped into Naoya's cup. But it was her next shot that really got my attention — perfect arc, clean landing, like she'd been doing this her whole damn life.

"Drink up, Professor," she said, but there was something different in her voice.

She reached for the tequila, and then—fuck me—propped one leg up on a nearby beer crate, the motion making her skirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of skin above her tights. Wait. Those weren't tights. Those were fucking stockings.

My brain short-circuited as I realized she'd been walking around all night in stockings. Actual stockings, with what I knew had to be a garter belt hidden under that criminally short skirt. The same spot where she was now deliberately sprinkling cinnamon.

The sight of that exposed sliver of skin between stocking and skirt made my blood boil. When the hell had she even bought those? Had she worn them just for tonight, knowing they'd make me lose my goddamn mind? Was she trying to get herself killed?

Because right now, watching her purposely dust cinnamon on that band of exposed skin, I wasn't sure if I wanted to murder her or fuck her. Probably both. My mouth went dry, and it had fuck-all to do with the alcohol.

"Well?" She tilted her head, all innocence except for that knowing look in her eyes. "Coming to get your tequila?" 

Like she had to ask twice. Yet I hesitated. With all these people watching? What was she playing at? It was reckless, careless, like she was deliberately trying to expose us. It was power play, a challenge. And I knew, that she knew, that I couldn't resist.

A slow smile spread across my face as I sank to one knee before her, the crowd fading into a blur of noise. All that mattered was her—the way her breath hitched as I gripped her calf, the way she tensed as she realized that I made a whole show for her (poor girl didn’t expect that now, did she?)—the feel of her skin on my tongue.

I took my sweet time with the cinnamon, letting my tongue glide over the exposed strip of flesh, feeling her shiver. My teeth grazed her skin, just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. If she wanted a show, I'd give her a show. And part of me wanted to shove that skirt higher, to chase that taste of salt and cinnamon further up her thigh until—

Focus. Fucking focus.

I straightened, stepping into her space. She held an orange slice in one hand, the shot glass in the other, and I couldn't help but notice how her pupils had blown wide, how her chest rose and fell just a little faster than normal.

I plucked the orange from her fingers with my teeth, my lips brushing her skin, then took the shot glass, using the movement to press closer, my mouth right by her ear, "What exactly is your plan here?"

"Create distraction," she breathed back.

God help me, but it was working. I was definitely distracted. Whole damn crowd was distracted. And watching her play this game—watching her play me—was probably the hottest and most infuriating thing I'd ever experienced. And I'm pretty sure everyone could see I was hard too.

"You're distracting the wrong audience," I whispered before knocking back the shot.

In the midst of trying to control my homicidal urges over those goddamn stockings, she caught my eye and subtly jerked her head. I turned, making it look like I was just checking something, and spotted them—Zenin, Okkotsu, and Inumaki hovering on the other side of the table behind Naoya, waiting for their chance. 

Right. The keys. The whole reason we were here. I almost forgot.

The game continued, the tension building with each shot. We were down to the last round — winner takes all. That's when she decided to really test my patience.

"Let's make this more interesting," she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Losers jump in the pool." A pause, then because apparently she was hell-bent on giving me a coronary. "No clothes."

"You wouldn’t dare," Naoya scoffed.

"Try me," she replied. 

I shot her a warning look. She subtly chewed on her bottom lip, meeting my gaze with an unnerving calm, perhaps her way of saying everything's gonna be okay. It did little to ease the knot in my stomach.

One shot left. If she made this, Naoya and I would be stripping down for a midnight dip. If she missed—

I tried not to think about her in that pool. Tried not to think about those stockings getting soaked. Tried not to think about murdering every sorry bastard who might lay eyes on her. Either way, this woman was going to be the death of me. If I didn't kill her first.

Naoya landed his shot, fucking prick. I missed mine for obvious reasons. Chemistry kid missed too, leaving everything on her shoulders. The ball left her hand, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It circled the rim, then rolled away.

The crowd went wild. Naoya's victory smirk made me want to punch his face in. I glanced over at her, wondering for a second if she'd missed on purpose. But there was no time for that.

"Well?" Naoya's voice. "I believe the losers owe us a show."

"The game wasn't exactly fair—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Naoya?" She turned to him, her words sharp. "To see me undress without having to drug me first?"

The crowd went dead silent. Naoya's scarred face contorted into something ugly. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're not as untouchable as you think."

"And you're pathetic," she spat back, then turned away from him. "At least I get to choose when I undress, right?”

She started walking toward the pool, each step deliberate, commanding. I followed, caught between pride and sheer terror at what she was about to do. At the edge, she turned back to me.

"Don't," I pleaded, but she was already reaching for the hem of her skirt. It fell, revealing the dark lace of her stockings. Then her top followed, and I stepped closer, trying to shield her from the leering eyes.

"This is insane." But my protest died as she stood there in only black lace, and then I saw them—the bruises from the fire still painted across her waist and ribs. Dark purple and yellow marks that hadn't yet faded, cruel reminder of how close I'd come to losing her.

The sight sobered me instantly. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and painful. The bruises I'd carefully tended to, the ones that still made her wince when I changed her bandages—on full display for this crowd of drunk idiots, turned into a spectacle.

"Please," I begged, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."

She met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d reached her. But then that smile—the one that sealed my fate—touched her lips. "Sorry, Professor," she whispered, and then she was gone, falling backward into the pool, taking a piece of me with her.

The splash echoed in my ears like a gunshot, and I was already shrugging off my jacket, ready to either dive in after her or use it to cover her when she surfaced. A cold, hard fury settled in my gut. Naoya was going to pay for this.

The crowd roared as she surfaced, her hair plastered to her face, water tracing the curves of her body beneath the soaked lace. Our eyes met across the distance, me standing at the pool's edge, and I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Something flickered across her face—regret maybe, or shame—before she looked away.

Hell broke loose. Bodies crashed into the water, sending waves across the pool. Even Naoya stripped off his shirt and dove in, reveling in the attention. The whole party seemed to shift to the pool in a matter of seconds — clothes flying, drinks splashing, the pristine water turning into a churning mess. 

Perfect distraction.

But I barely registered any of it, my world had narrowed to her. I watched as she climbed out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the concrete, practically sprinting past me, her gaze fixed on the floor, while water dripped from her hair, her skin, the dark lace clinging to her form.

Behind her, the pool had turned into chaos — exactly what she'd planned, I realized. 

I gathered her clothes from where they'd fallen and followed her inside. I caught a glimpse of Okkotsu's quick movements near the discarded clothes by the pool. 

Well played.

─── ·✧· ───

Her dripping form drew curious eyes as we moved through the foyer. Each step felt like a penance—hers for the recklessness, mine for letting it happen. Heads turned, conversations died, the sudden silence punctuated only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from her hair.

Kento’s face flashed past, but I barely registered him. No doubt he'd give me shit about it at the university later, like he didn't already know something was up with me and her.

I wrapped my jacket around her shivering shoulders, fighting the desperate urge to reach for the opioids hidden in my pocket. Withdrawal, guilt, and fury burned together in my veins, making me want to crawl out of my own skin. 

I stepped in front of her, partly to block all those eyes on her, partly to hide how bad my hands were shaking. None of it was worth it. Not the keys, not avoiding my parents, none of it. How did we end up here? How did I allow things to get to this point?

Upstairs, she dressed quickly, water still dripping from her hair, leaving damp patches on her clothes.

"Are you cold?" 

"I'm okay," she said, avoiding my gaze. 

She was shaking. I could see the goosebumps on her arms. "You're shivering," I said and reached for her, but she pulled away.

“I’m fine, really.”

Despite her words, I pulled her close. She didn't resist this time, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes were bright, and for a second, I thought she might cry. The world could have been watching, for all I cared. If those tears fell, it would be my undoing.

And then I thought of everything she'd done, everything she'd had to do—for me. My twenty-four-year-old student, forced to protect me from my own damn parents, to beg for my own money. Because I’d hit a guy who tried to hurt her. Why was it all so fucked up?

The high was long gone, leaving this gaping hole. My limbs felt heavy, detached, like they belonged to a stranger, unable to reach out and fix what I’d broken. And we were so far from where we started.

"You're disappointed," she finally said. She wasn't asking.

"We should leave." Because I couldn't bear to watch her sacrifice one more piece of herself for me.

"You can leave."

Before I could say anything back, Zenin came bursting into our corner, Okkotsu and Inumaki right behind her, her eyes all lit up. "That was fucking insane!" she yelled, waving something around—Naoya's keys. "But it worked! I can't believe it actually—" She stopped short, finally noticing the tension between us.

The win felt empty. Yeah, we got what we came for. But what did it cost? Looking at her, still shivering a little in my jacket, I wasn't so sure it was worth it. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I just kept watching her throw herself in the fire for me. 

Some professor I was. Some man I was.

Strange how winning can feel so much like losing, especially when you realize you're not the one paying the price.

─── ·✧· ───

I stayed outside Naoya's room, playing lookout. At least that's what I told them. Truth was, I couldn't stand being in there, couldn't bear being near her, watching her fight my battles while I was barely holding myself together.

The itch under my skin had spread, making my whole body crawl with invisible insects while she did the dirty work. Even after everything, she was still trying to save me. 

And I was still letting her.

I slid down the wall, my head hitting the floor. How did we end up here? What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing?

I'm thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake. Why was I acting like a goddamn teenager? I should've stopped her, shouldn't have let her leave the house to begin with, should've been the adult. But instead, I let it happen, standing by and watching where it led. Again.

This whole situation was insane. We were in too deep, and I knew it. But I couldn't seem to find my way out, couldn't seem to stop this trainwreck we were on. It was like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body, powerless to change course.

What kind of man was I? What kind of professor? I was supposed to be her mentor, her… something more. Instead, I was dragging her down with me.

I thought back to that night, the one that started it all. The night I found her in the lab, working late, hunched over her microscope. She looked up at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that seemed to see right through me. And I was lost. I knew it was wrong. I knew I should have walked away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Drawn in. Consumed.

And now, here we were. Trapped in this fucked-up situation of our own making. I wanted to blame her, to say it was all her fault for being so reckless, so damn stubborn. But I knew that wasn't true. I let this happen. I didn’t stop it. But why? 

I could replay the events in my mind, frame by frame, but the crucial moment, the point where I should have intervened, remained a blur. It was as if some part of me had wanted to see where this ended.

Music still drifted up from downstairs, the bass thumping through the walls. It felt wrong, out of place. Like we were in a different world, a fucked-up one, while everyone else was living their normal, happy lives.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. That we weren't here. That everything was okay. But it was happening. And I was in it, and I knew I couldn't hold my breath much longer.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Kept seeing things in the corners of my vision. Shadows that shouldn't move but did, faces that weren't faces at all. The wallpaper breathed. In and out. In and out. Like a lung.

Stop it. Just stop all of it. Make it stop. But it won't stop, can't stop, because she's in there right now, digging through his things, trying to save me save me save me why won't she just stop trying to save me?

Everything felt wrong, sick, twisted. Too bright and too dark all at once. My skin didn't fit right anymore. Nothing fit right anymore. God, I needed a goddamn fix.

A cough. I pressed my hand against my mouth. When I pulled it away, my palm was red. 

Huh. That's new. 

I stared at the blood, watching it pool in the lines of my hand. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, too thick. The longer I stared, the more it seemed to move strangely, crawling along the creases of my palm.

Was blood supposed to move like that? Like it was alive? Like it was trying to tell me something? I couldn't remember anymore. I couldn't remember a lot of things lately. The blood kept moving, kept spreading. 

Maybe this was it—maybe I was finally losing whatever scraps of sanity I had left, sitting here on a dirty floor watching my own blood drip down my palm.

A part of me wondered if he'd been right all along, that I was becoming him, the very thing I’d always feared. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be better, different. Not this—huddled on a filthy floor at a college party, watching my blood move as if in psychosis, while she risked everything for me. Again. 

The door handle turned. Shit. I wiped my palm against the dark carpet, smearing the blood into the fibers where it vanished like it was never there. I scrambled to my feet just as they emerged. She moved quickly, shoving something beneath the waistband of her skirt. Before I could speak, she grabbed my arm.

"Let's leave." There was something like panic in her voice. "I'll tell you outside."

I gripped her hand, my own pulse quickening, and we went downstairs and pushed through the mass of drunk students. But then the music cut abruptly, plunging us into a moment of strange silence before panicked voices filled the void. 

"What the hell—?" Okkotsu’s shout cut through the din from behind us.

Then I saw the flashing lights—red and blue strobing through the windows. Fuck. 

"Cops!" Someone shouted, and the whole house erupted into chaos as people scrambled in every direction.

"Everyone freeze!" A voice boomed through the foyer. "Nobody moves!"

We reached the entrance as two officers shouldered their way through the front door. The bigger one looked like he benched trucks for fun, taking up almost the entire doorframe as he planted himself there.

"Listen up!" he bellowed, one meaty hand resting on his belt. "Party's over. Nobody leaves until we check IDs."

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I felt her tense beside me, those things hidden in her waistband might as well have been burning her skin. I could practically feel her panic.

"Look, officers." I stepped forward, forcing my voice into something professional. "There seems to be some confusion—"

"No confusion here," Truck-Bencher cut me off, the scar on his lip twisting as he frowned. "Got noise complaints, reports of underage drinking. Everyone stays put."

"I'm faculty at the university. These are my students and they're all over twenty-one. You're wasting everyone's time—"

"Nobody leaves until we say so."

"You really want to process IDs for over two hundred students?"

"You telling me how to do my job?" He shifted closer, chest puffed out despite me having two inches on him.

Withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like insects, each bite feeding the rage that built vertebra by vertebra up my spine. "Depends. Are you actually doing it, or just power tripping?"

"Back the fuck up." His hand dropped to his belt. "Last chance."

I felt her fingers digging into my arm, trying to pull me back. But the rage was a living thing now, burning away anything resembling sense or restraint. "Or what?"

The punch came fast. I dropped, and heard the sickening crack of bone against flesh—not mine. Some poor student next to me. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then chaos.

Bodies everywhere. Screaming. Shoving. Radio static cutting through the roar. Her hand in mine as we pushed through the surge. Her friends somewhere behind. Everything blurred. I can't remember when she let go of my hand.

I just remember the scream. Different from the others. Then her voice, "Get her on the ground!" I shoved through the mass of bodies. Saw the girl on the floor. Ice flooded my veins.

I knew that face. Higurama's intern. My patient. My responsibility.

I dropped beside her, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. Her eyes rolled back. Withdrawal made everything too sharp, too bright. I couldn't think. Couldn't—

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. It was her voice. Fingers gripped my arm. "Satoru, look at me." I met her eyes. Steady. Unnerving. "Focus."

Everything snapped back into place. My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. "This is Dr. Gojo from Jujutsu Medical. Twenty-six-year-old female, epileptic, pre-seizure presentation. We need immediate assistance."

My voice was mechanical, professional. Inside, my mind screamed. Why was she here? Had she been drinking? Were her meds interacting with something? I should know this. Should be better than this. Should be fucking better. 

Nausea rose in my throat and I'd never felt more like a failure in my entire fucking life.

Behind us, the fight continued to rage. A man’s voice bellowed, trying to restore order. Then Suguru was there, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle as he cradled her head. He murmured something, soft and low. The tenderness in his movements caught me off guard. 

"The ambulance is taking too long." His voice cut through everything. Before I could process it, he had her in his arms, head protected against his chest and moved.

─── ·✧· ───

I can't remember how we got to the hospital.

Everything blurred into fragments. Flashing lights, squealing tires, the weight of everything crushing my chest. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until I swallowed three pills. Maybe four. I lost count.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh, making my skull feel like it was splitting open. I wanted to crack my head against the wall.

Some part of me was still moving, still speaking in that detached doctor voice — rattling off medical history, medications, possible interactions. Years of training overriding the screaming in my head. But they never trained us for this.

Never trained us for how guilt tastes like acid in your throat while watching your mistakes breathe shallowly on starched white sheets.

They taught us to make clean incisions, to suture arteries, to restart hearts. But not how your own heart would seize when you recognize the face on the floor. Not how your girlfriend’s hands would be steadier than your own worthless trembling ones as you fumbled for your phone, your throat closing around the words "this is my fault", "please" and "I'm sorry."

Didn’t prepare us for withdrawal turning your hands into treacherous strangers while someone seized at your feet. For the shame that festers in your gut as you come down, struggling to remember basic fucking dosages through the need scorching through your veins.

They never warned us how love would carve you open worse than any scalpel, making you both butcher and victim, instrument and incision. Never warned us about loving someone while you’re falling apart. How it feels like drowning in open air, your chest cracked wide and your beating heart wrenched out into daylight, desperate and terrified and somehow still pumping, still fighting, still so fucking afraid.

Higurama's intern lay still now, the steady drip of the IV marking time like a metronome in the silence. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, my mind replaying the medications, the dosages, searching for the mistake I must have made. There had to be one. There was always one.

Perhaps he was right about me after all. Funny how even now, even here, I could still hear his voice so clearly.

"You okay?"

She sat across from me, swallowed by my spare clothes—an old t-shirt and sweatpants that draped loosely on her frame, a blanket draped over her legs. Anything was better than those clothes from before, those fucking stockings I'd personally thrown in the trash.

"Satoru?" she tried again. "You okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"Talk me through her meds again," she said, resting her head in her palm. Her eyes, piercing and unwavering, never left my face as she waited.

I rubbed my temples, trying to focus through the exhaustion. "Standard anticonvulsants. Levetiracetam, 500mg twice daily. Added phenytoin after the first seizure." I fell back into my chair, scrubbing my hand over my face. "She couldn't tolerate the Levetiracetam, so I switched to Topiramate, 500mg thrice daily."

She was quiet for a moment. "Side effects?"

"Minor. Tremor in her extremities sometimes, but nothing she couldn't handle. It was working." I paused. "It was supposed to be working."

"EEG results?"

"Showed mild abnormalities. Nothing that would explain a seizure this severe." I scrubbed at my face again, harder this time. "I should have seen it. Should have caught something."

"Satoru." Her voice held that gentle firmness I knew so well. "You did everything right."

"Then why did she seize?" I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against linoleum. I turned away, unable to bear her gentle gaze. Outside, dawn was breaking in shades of grey. No color, no warmth, just an endless stretch of concrete and clouded sky bleeding into each other. "If I did everything right, why is she lying here?"

"Because sometimes that's just how it goes. You know this better than anyone," she said. "Medicine isn't perfect. Neither are we."

My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and distorted in the glass. Dark circles, stubble, hair a fucking mess. A doctor coming down from a high while his patient lay in a hospital bed.

"I should have increased the dosage earlier. Run more tests. I should have—"

"Seen the future?"

"I should have been better."

"You are already the best," she said, but it felt like a lie to me. "But even the best can't control everything."

Higurama's intern stirred slightly in her sleep, and we both fell silent, the moment stretching taut between us. I dragged myself back to the chair, sinking down with my face in my hands.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead. "Sometimes life just happens, and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces."

I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to. But the truth sat like stones in my stomach.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"I know."

Silence.

"Do you blame yourself?" she asked quietly.

"How can I not?"

Because it's stupid, you know this. I could feel them in my bones, the words forming on her lips before she could speak them. "How did that ever change anything?" I said before she could start.

She leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Do you think we are terrible people?" she asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.

I turned to look at her then, really look at her. Even exhausted and worried, wearing my old clothes, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Like a drug I couldn't quit, a high I'd chase until it killed me. 

And what did that say about either of us? That I wanted to crack her open, crawl inside her skin and nestle myself in her marrow? Wanted to consume her, devour her, until there was nothing left but the two of us, fused together in the most depraved way possible?

It was as if we were always meant to find each other. But it was a penance, for both of us.

"I think I am what I am because of you," I finally said.

And it was the truth. She'd molded me, shaped me, just as I'd shaped her. We'd ruined each other for anyone else, stripped away the innocence and left only the filth and grit behind.

Her hand fell from her face, her eyes meeting mine. "And I am what I am because of you."

"Does that scare you?"

"I think one gets used to it."

"Yeah," I said finally, my voice rough. "I guess you do get used to it. Until you don't."

She frowned, but before she could voice something, Suguru stepped inside. 

He said we should leave, and maybe that was for the better anyway, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was an edge to his voice. Anger, perhaps. But I couldn't blame him. Not really.

I grabbed her things, my hand finding its familiar place at the small of her back as we headed for the door. Suguru's voice followed us down the corridor. "What did you find in Zenin's room anyway?" he asked, as if it were something to be discussed in the doorway.

I walked ahead.

I didn't need to hear again about the unconscious women on the Polaroids. 

─── ·✧· ───

Too quiet.

He was never this quiet.

"How bad is it?" I asked, perched on the edge of the exam bed where the paper sheet betrayed every nervous shift of my weight with stupid crinkles. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the linoleum floor.

I'd coughed up blood again earlier this morning. More than last night. The metallic taste had filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. I'd stumbled to the bathroom, careful not to wake her—she needed the rest after we spent the whole damn night at the police station.

I stared at the red running down the drain. Way more than there should be. I'd blamed it on stress and alcohol last time. But now? It meant my liver was probably failing faster than I'd thought. Coagulation system breaking down, blood vessels becoming fragile. Textbook end-stage.

I called him then. He was still at the hospital, had slept there while looking after Higurama's intern. His face had gone pale when he saw me walk in. Guess I looked as bad as I felt.

We ran tests. All of them. Blood work, chest X-rays, the works. And now here we are. I watched him reading what I assumed was my death sentence, waiting for him to finally look up, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

But he kept his eyes fixed on the test results, holding himself with the careful rigidity of someone handling explosives. Another bad sign.

"Suguru."

He exhaled slowly, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that said everything before his mouth could form the words. "You should have started treatment sooner. We talked about this months ago."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I tried to wave off his concern. "What do the results say?"

His fingers tightened on the papers until the corners creased. "Your liver enzymes are through the roof. AST over 1000, ALT even higher. Bilirubin's climbing while albumin's dropping. Your PT/INR values—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. Not just damaged anymore—failing."

I let the clinical terms wash over me. The doctor in me understood the implications perfectly. The addict in me wanted to laugh at the irony.

"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my tone, "guess I should have listened to you sooner, huh?"

Suguru's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke. Without immediate intervention—" He caught himself, but I could read the rest in his eyes as clearly as any lab report.

Without immediate intervention, I was dying. Fitting, really. That my body would choose to betray me just when I'd finally found something worth living for.

"How's the withdrawal going?" Suguru asked, setting down the test results.

"Managing." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how even that simple movement felt like too much effort. "Reduced the hydromorphone gradually. Down to about 5mg now."

"Satoru." His voice carried that familiar note of frustration, the one I'd heard a thousand times before. "You need to stop completely. Not reduce—stop. Your liver can't handle any more strain."

"I'm trying," I snapped, then immediately regretted the harshness. "Sorry. I know you're trying to help."

Suguru pulled up a chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "We need to start treatment immediately. The protocol won't be pleasant—high-dose corticosteroids, immunosuppressants, possibly plasmapheresis if things get worse."

"Sounds fun."

"It'll be brutal," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "The side effects alone—you'll need to be monitored constantly. Multiple blood draws daily, frequent imaging. And absolutely no narcotics—your liver won't survive it."

I absorbed this, the clinical reality of what lay ahead settling into my bones. "So basically, I get to feel like shit while you stick me with needles and watch me suffer."

"That's about right. But it's either that or start planning your funeral."

"At least you're honest." I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'll admit you tonight, get you set up in a private room," Suguru said, already reaching for admission forms.

"Monday morning."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"I have a family dinner on Sunday," I shrugged. "Can't skip it."

"Are you insane?" Suguru's voice rose to fill the small room. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. This isn't something you can postpone for a damn dinner party."

"Monday morning," I repeated firmly. "I gave my word I'd be there."

"Your word won't mean much if you're dead."

"I can manage two more days."

"No, you can't." Suguru slammed the test results down with enough force to make me flinch. Since when is he always so fucking tense? "Your numbers are critical. Every hour we delay treatment increases the risk of complete liver failure."

"Monday."

"For fuck's sake, Satoru—"

"I said Monday. I need to do this, Suguru. Please."

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

"Fine. Monday morning, first thing. But if you show any signs of deterioration—any at all—I'm admitting you immediately. And no alcohol at that dinner. Not a single drop."

"Deal."

"I mean it, Satoru."

"I know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy atmosphere. "You can do all sorts of things to me on Monday. Not like I have much on my schedule anyway."

"So Yaga has exempted you?"

"Temporarily relieved of my teaching duties until further notice." I tried to keep my voice light, but the words still choked me. "Apparently, licking your student's leg in public view isn't considered acceptable behavior. Who knew?"

"Everyone would have known that."

"Most people were too drunk to remember anyway, or too busy dealing with the police raid afterwards to care." I shrugged. "Silver lining?"

"This isn't funny. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Your career—"

"My career?" I almost laughed. "In case you missed the memo, my liver's failing. I think my career concerns just got bumped down the priority list."

Suguru fell silent.

"Besides," I added, "maybe it's for the best. Can't exactly teach while going through treatment, can I?"

"Yaga doesn't know about your condition?"

"No, and he's not going to. As far as he's concerned, I'm just taking some time to... reassess my professional boundaries."

"And when he asks why you're not fighting this?"

I sighed. "Let him think what he wants. I've got bigger problems right now."

"Like a family dinner you're insisting on attending despite being on death's door?"

"Exactly." I flashed him a grin, this one a little more genuine despite everything. "See? You're getting it."

"You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

"That's why I'm going to enjoy sticking you with needles on Monday."

"Kinky."

His expression sobered, eyes searching my face. "You should tell her."

The mere mention of her sent a knife twisting in my gut. "No."

"Satoru—"

"I said no. She has enough to deal with right now. This stays between us."

Suguru shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew me too well to waste his breath.

"I will," I added softly, more to convince myself than him. "When I'm a bit better."

"This will kill her."

"I know."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed. "For being an asshole. For everything. And... thanks for coming to the party with me."

"You already apologized."

"I mean it." I met his gaze. "You've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of the friendship we'd shared before everything got so complicated. Before I'd dragged us both into this mess.

"Just don't die on me," he said. "I've invested too much time in keeping your stupid ass alive."

I pushed off the bed, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that threatened to knock me over. "See you Monday."

"You're a stubborn idiot," he called after me. I didn't disagree. 

I stopped at the door, turning back. "Hey, what's going on between you and Higurama's intern anyway?"

Suguru stiffened slightly. "Nothing. Just concerned since she's my patient now too."

I studied him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze shifted slightly left—his tell when he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Sure," I said, too exhausted to push it further. "See you Monday."

As I walked away, I wondered if he knew how obvious he was. Then again, who was I to judge? I was hardly an expert at handling matters of the heart.

─── ·✧· ───

I paused outside our apartment door, my hand trembling on the handle. Withdrawal clawed through me, a living thing twisting my gut. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs constricting as if they'd forgotten their purpose. Just breathe, idiot. In, out. You're almost there.

Relief flooded through me the moment I opened the door. Her shoes were there, neatly arranged next to my scattered ones. Her coat on the hook. She was home.

Strange how that simple fact could lift the weight crushing my chest, made breathing a fraction less painful. No matter how bad things were, coming home to her felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.

Dog bounded up to greet me, tail whipping back and forth, before darting off toward the bedroom. Smart boy knew exactly where to find her. I kicked off my shoes, let my jacket fall where it would, and followed.

She was there, sprawled across our bed in a sea of papers, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. The sight of her stole what little breath I had left. Hair messily pulled back, drowning in one of my old t-shirts, completely lost in whatever she was reading. Beautiful. It was a beauty that made my heart ache.

Without a word, I crawled onto the bed, dragging myself up until I could rest my head on her stomach. I paused, remembering the bruises on her midsection. But before I could pull back, she gently tugged me closer and I surrendered, resting my head against her warmth. 

I wrapped my arms around her waist and her fingers found my hair instantly, like they belonged there, gentle strokes that made my eyes flutter closed and I thought, this was home. This was peace. Even as my body screamed for relief, even as guilt gnawed at me, here with her, I could almost believe everything would be okay.

"What are you reading?" I mumbled against her shirt, already knowing the answer. Why did she still throw herself into this project? Did it even matter anymore? But I already knew that answer too. Distraction.

"Research papers. For our project." Her fingers never stopped their magic. "Everything okay at the hospital?" I wondered for a second how she knew where I went, but then she said, "Antiseptic smell."

Did I always smell like that? Like the harsh, sterile scent of the hospital? I hated it. Hated how it seemed to cling to my skin no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands raw. Hated the way it reminded me of sickness and death.

I hugged her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent as that was so unlike the clinical smell of the hospital as I crafted the lie. Yeah, everything's fine, I told her. Had to check on something with a patient. Normal stuff, nothing to worry about. Standard procedure.

But even as I spoke, the guilt in my stomach twisted. The truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going like this. I could feel myself slipping, losing my grip on the things that mattered most and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd even make it to the end.

If I'd be there to witness the results of our research, to stand by her side as we perhaps do something great. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the feel of her beneath me, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her fingers paused momentarily in my hair, and I knew she sensed something off. She always could read me too well. But then she resumed the gentle stroking.

"You'd tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Of course," I whispered, another lie to add to the growing pile.

I tightened my arms around her waist, as if by holding her close enough, I could somehow make up for my betrayal. As if loving her fiercely enough could somehow balance out the pain I was about to cause her. Monday felt both too far away and not nearly far enough.

Desperate for a distraction, I asked about how it went at the police station. She said it was fine, her friends were with her as they'd needed to clarify their statements, she explained, her fingers still weaving through my hair. Everything had been too hazy right after the party.

She mentioned they needed me to verify my own statement again too. I bit back the urge to say that they'd likely have to come to my hospital bed for that. Instead, I just hummed in response. Whatever it took to make that little shit pay for what he'd done.

"He won't hurt anyone else," she added. "We'll make sure of it."

Something about her struck me as odd. How could she be so unaffected by everything that had happened? Like we didn’t just discover that Zenin Naoya was—

"You're so calm about it." 

"And what would you have me do?"

I didn’t know. Maybe I should be grateful that at least one of us could keep it together. 

I turned my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how sorry I was for dragging her into this mess, how I feared the rumors that would follow her through university halls. How fucking terrified I was. How much I loved her. But it all just crowded in my throat, tangled with all the other truths I couldn't voice.

Instead, I just held her tighter. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"For what?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Or lie again. I clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, pressing my face into her stomach, trying to blur myself into her very being. "Satoru,” she winced, a small sound escaping her lips. "You're hurting me."

"Please," I pleaded, tears pricking at my eyes. “Just… bear it for a moment. Please.” But then, a sudden tickle rose in my throat, and I sat up abruptly, he movement sending the room spinning.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting up as well, her hand cradling her side.

"Yeah," I managed, before another cough clawed its way out. I stood, turning away from her, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. When I pulled it away, blood glistened on my palm.

"Satoru? You sure you're okay?"

"Everything's fine." I curled my fingers into a fist, watching red seep between my knuckles. "Just need some water."

I should call him again. Should probably head to the hospital right now. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to seek help, to stop this madness before it was too late. 

But Sunday's dinner loomed in my mind. One last chance to fix things with her, to make things right before everything inevitably crumbled around us. Just two more days. I just needed to hold on for two more days and then I could let the chips fall where they may.

Even as blood painted the back of my throat red, I clung to that desperate hope, that foolish notion that I could make this right. I knew I was being stupid. Reckless. Playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. 

But then again, what did it matter anyway?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — welcome back, i hope this wasn't too intense, even tho i went through all stages of grief writing this chapter, but i'm quite happy with how it turned out. hope you all survived seeing things through satoru's eyes once more. writing from his perspective is always both challenging and thrilling in some strange way.

quick note, as this is somehow not obvious to some people: i understand that this story deals with controversial topics and might not be everyone’s cup of tea but this is purely fictional work, and i'm just here to enjoy a stupid little hobby. i am not looking for criticism. if the story makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me and move on.

for those following the spin-off: yes, this chapter runs parallel to remedies and reasons chapter 04 ! if you want to see how certain events played out from a different angle, definitely check out the suguru spin-off.

and i want to thank you all for your incredible support. your comments, messages, and theories continue to blow me away. seeing how deeply you connect with this story and catch all the little details i sprinkle throughout brings me so much joy. your thoughtful analyses and wild speculations make writing this stupid story so much fun !! :''))

also a massive thank you to @/nanamis-baker who beta reads all these chaotic chapters, listens to my rambling about plot points, and talks me down whenever i'm convinced everything i write is terrible <3

& second quick note about the alcohol consumption in this story: while it's serve the narrative of the story, please remember that alcohol is toxic to the body and brain, with no "safe" amount. please be mindful of your health and wellbeing.

next chapter we'll be back to our regular pov as we deal with the aftermath of... well, all of this. until then, take care of yourselves ! and as always, thank you for joining me on this chaotic journey and being patient with my slow updates <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[s-lverwing]

I’LL CHEW YOU, I’LL GO THROUGH YOU

pairing. emperor caracalla x wife!reader.

summary. What is the meaning of yet another scar upon your body and mind? When your husband’s illness twists his mind, turning him against you, and he accuses you of betrayal.

word count. 2.6k / ao3 link

warnings. angst, toxic relationships. heavy pinning. violence. blood. english isn’t my first language.

a/n. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛 I USED CARACALLA’s BORN NAME LUCIUS AT SOME POINT DONT BE JUMPSCARED.

The room was quiet tonight -- perhaps it was because the day had been full of entertainment for Emperor Caracalla, leaving him content and sated, pleased. Even Dundus, his ever-watchful companion, seemed subdued as he chewed absentmindedly on a piece of grapefruit, the soft sound barely breaking the silence. You caught the faint noise and felt the corner of your lips twitch upward—an involuntary, yet fleeting smile—as your fingers curled tightly into the delicate fabric of your dress.

Still, the knot of nerves in your stomach refused to break. It was no secret that Caracalla’s tolerance for absence was rather thin. His emotions were volatile, and the palace staff whispered of the storms that brewed when his wife strayed too long from his sight. Not even you were immune to the fear of those rages—not because you thought he would harm you, but because you knew too well the weight of his anguish when it overtook him. It wasn’t the anger itself that frightened you; it was the aftermath.

The soft sound of your sandals against the polished white marble echoed faintly through the chamber as you entered, the sound drawing Dundus’s small, curious eyes to you. His chewing ceased, his tiny body shifting toward you as though to signal your arrival. Inevitably, Caracalla’s gaze followed.

You hesitated under it, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. His eyes, so often shadowed with something too complicated to name, rested on you now, and though his expression remained stoic, there was a flicker of something—curiosity, might have been if he was another person, but Caracalla’s eyes were ready to blame you for something. It was the expression he usually gave to his twin brother, Geta. Your nerves prickled under his scrutiny, the tension coiling tighter in your chest and stomach.

Would he speak? Demand to know where you had been, his voice sharp with suspicion and laced with the undercurrent of his illness, or would he remain silent, his displeasure a force pushing you away? Tonight, it seemed he had chosen silence. He turned away, his focus shifting deliberately to Dundus. For a moment, you felt an unexpected pang of relief—until the realization hit you that his indifference might be worse than his fury.

You knew how quickly the calm could shatter, how easily the weight of whispers in the palace could drive him to the edge. They spoke of his instability, of his twin’s steadier hand, of how Caracalla’s mind was clouded by the slow and insidious progression of his illness. You had seen the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking.

And yet, for all his wild unpredictability and impulsiveness, you had learned to weather his storms. Others feared his wrath—his soldiers, his council, even his brother at times—but you knew the truth of it. Even when he turns away from clarity and starts asking for your head to the Praetorians guards, still, you knew better.

There had been a time when his moments of vulnerability after the storm had frightened you, when you hadn’t known how to respond to the sight of an emperor—the ruler of Rome—curled in on himself, tears soaking your tunic as he clung to you like a drowning man. But now, you know him better. You know how to reach him when no one else could. It was a power that even his twin did not possess, and it had become both your burden and your solace.

You stepped further into the room, your heartbeat steadying as you drew closer. Caracalla did not turn, his posture rigid as if he were willing himself not to acknowledge you. The silence stretched taut between you, but you had grown accustomed to its weight.

“Love—”

You didn’t even make it past his name before his voice cut through the stillness of the chamber.

“—Where were you?”

His question was soft, measured, but there was something brewing behind the words, a quiet tremor that betrayed the storm building inside him. His voice wavered, a thin thread barely holding his emotions in check. It was the calm before the inevitable storm.

You stood frozen, as though the marble beneath your sandals had turned molten, holding you in place. The space between you both seemed enormous—far greater than the few strides it would take to reach him. Not just physically, but mentally.

Your eyes flicked to his hands, trembling faintly at his sides. You’d seen this before. It was the prelude to something larger, a wave of emotion that would crash over you before you could even think to steady yourself against it.

“I was with Lucilla,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You chose your words carefully, as though you were addressing a wounded animal instead of your very human husband. Your tone was gentle.

You reached for your hair to take one of the medicinal flowers she always carries around, as a proof.

But he wasn’t having any of it—he was far too lost within his mind to care about anything you had to say. Dundus was the first to sense the chaos, clutching tightly to Caracalla’s hair as though to anchor him to reality.

“You always lie!” he roared, his voice cracking with raw emotion as he stood abruptly from his opulent chair. The first glass shattered against the marble floor, fragments glittering like jagged stars under the candle light. “You’re just like Geta! You—you and him are against me! Like everyone! So don’t lie to me, don’t lie to me… I—I know you were with him. Yes, yes! Someone told me…”

His ringed finger jabbed toward you, trembling as his accusations poured forth, each word more unhinged than the last. His breath came in short, erratic bursts, his chest heaving as though he were fighting an invisible foe. His entire body shook as he tried, and failed, to hold onto the last frail threads of composure. And even as he accused you of treachery, of betrayal, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anger. There was no room for that—not when his anguish stood so naked before you, consuming him from within. Your love for him ran deeper than any wound his words could inflict, though you didn’t understand it.

You should leave. You knew it would be easier to walk away, to leave behind the chaos that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Far away from the Emperor, you could have peace, a life unmarred by this relentless storm. And yet, you will stay. You couldn’t turn your back on him. Not now, not ever.

You exhaled deeply, your breath trembling as you steadied yourself. You knew his instincts—he would try to mimic you, to find solace in your calmness. “Who is someone, Lucius?” you asked softly, your voice a whisper, barely audible over the sound of your fingers nervously fidgeting with the lavender flower you held.

His hands flew to his temples, pressing hard against them as though he could force clarity through will. “I can’t remember!” He shouted, his frustration bleeding through every word. “It’s all cloudy… But it’s true! I believe it’s true, and if I believe it, then it is true!”

“They are lying to you,” You said gently, a quiet plea against the chaos consuming him. “Not me. I’m your wife.”

His body shuddered as his breathing grew uneven. “I could have you hung!” He roared, his voice rising to a near scream. “Both of you! You and my brother, strung up outside the city for conspiring against me! My brother and my traitor wife hanged together for all of Rome to see…”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you held firm, taking a small step closer. “Would you like me hanged, then?” You inquiere, your tone unwavering despite the weight of the accusation.

“Don’t—don’t play games with me!” His voice cracked as his hands flew to his head again, fingers tangling in his ginger curls, tugging with a desperation that bordered on pain. “You’re messing with my mind!”

His breathing grew ragged as he paced, his voice rising in anguish. “Everything has to be shared! I have nothing that is truly mine—not even my own wife! Everyone loves Geta, they respect him… they trust him. And I’m so tired! Tired of giving, tired of sharing, tired of being left with nothing!”

“Why, then?” Your voice trembled but was steady enough to cut through his mind. “Why would you believe the words of a stranger over the words of your own wife?”

“Because you’re a liar!” He shouted, spinning toward you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his entire frame shaking as though he were holding himself together by sheer will. “I have given everything to you, and it’s never enough! It won’t be enough now that my brother has laid his filthy hands on you!” His voice broke, and his face twisted in a mix of rage and sorrow.

“You love him. Admit it—you love Geta!” He spat.

Your breath hitched, and used all your willpower not to flinch. “I don’t love Geta,” You said, with a quiet but firm tone. “I can barely stand him.”

“But you weren’t here!” His voice cracked with desperation.

You remained silent for a moment, knowing the truth was both a weapon and a fragile thing. “That’s true, I was with Lucilla…” You started softly, your voice trembling as you spoke the name. “She gave me this—”

“You alway lie!” His words cut through the air like daggers, and this time Dundus, perched nervously on his shoulder, became restless, chittering as his small claws scrambled across Caracalla’s back. The anxiety in the room was suffocating.

Without warning, Caracalla’s hands shot out, trembling violently as he grabbed one of the small vases sitting on the nearby table. His eyes, wild and frantic, never left yours as he impulsively hurled it toward you. But then, in a split second, he stopped himself. His breath caught, his hand frozen mid-throw as he saw that sudden flicker of fear in your eyes. That was when it hit him—the raw realization that the fear he thrived on, the fear he wanted and desired, was not something he ever wanted to see in you. Not in the person he loved the most.

With a strangled sound, he let go of the vase, watching it shatter violently against the marble floor, the pieces scattering besides the broken glass. The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft, erratic sounds of his breath, and Dundus chittering.

Caracalla’s body trembled, not from anger, no, from something far more vulnerable. Something he couldn’t understand. His shoulders shook as soft sobs wracked his frame. His eyes were glossy, flickering with the first signs of tears, but he tried to hold them back, clenching his fists as if to stifle the emotion he feared would consume him.

“How—how can I fight against something I don’t remember?” His voice quivered, heavy with frustration, as his trembling hands pressed into his temples. His disheveled hair framed a face that was both tortured and childlike, caught in the haze of confusion. “I don’t—everything is cloudy,” He admitted, his words were fragile and raw.

Your heart ached at the sight of him unraveling. Slowly, you moved toward him, each step measured, as if approaching a wounded animal. You sank gracefully to your knees before him, the cold marble biting into your naked knees, avoiding the shards of glass. Your hands reached out hesitantly, settling gently atop his covered legs.

“I’m on your side, love,” You whispered, your voice soft as silk.

He stilled at your touch, his hands faltering in their frantic pressure against his temples. His wide, glassy eyes met yours, searching for something— whether it was truth, solace, or perhaps the faintest trace of reassurance you couldn’t decipher. He felt caught between the fragility of trust and the weight of doubt that lingered like a shadow over his mind.

In a second, Caracalla was subtly startled by Dundus’ quietly chewing, and before you could even catch your breath, your balance faltered. Your hand shot out instinctively, looking for anything to steady you, but the cold marble floor offered no comfort as your palm met it with a sharp glass, and a cry made home in your throat. You recoiled instantly, but not before you let the jagged shard of glass buried itself deep into your skin.

You gasped, a shudder running through your body as you stared at the blood that began to pool in your hand. The glass had left its mark, but it wasn’t the cut that stung the most. It would scar — in a similar fashion as the Emperor had made himself a place inside your heart, through blood and pain.

You drew in a shaky breath, steadying yourself as your fingers from the other hand, trembling with the sting of the wound, gently extracted the shard. The glass scraped against your skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to flinch any further. Instead, you handled it with a tenderness that even surprised you. As if your body, despite the pain, knew the way to treat the wound, knew that softness was the only thing you could offer now. Not for him, not for anyone else — but for the wound itself. It mirrored the wounds marring your heart.

All that time Caracalla’s eyes were never off you. His gaze was turbulent and wild, following your every move. He was watching you with a hunger in his eyes — but his hunger seemed torn between fascination and frustration. His element was blood; he enjoyed conflict and violence and the mark it left on the knife when it met the flesh. He thrived in those who were in pain. He loved to see the wound open and bleeding. But not on you — never on you. So he wondered, as much as his cloudy mind let him, if what he was feeling was anguish, guilt or pleasure.

As you turned your gaze back to him, his entire demeanor seemed to shift. His disheveled hair, his paller face, the pink scars beneath his makeup make him seem so fragile. In a fleeting moment, he appeared even smaller, but more human. His hands were shaking when he reached for yours, but the touch wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, uncertain, as if he couldn’t quite decide what to do with you

And still, you held his gaze, despite the blood staining your hand, despite the way his trembling fingers gripped yours—not with tenderness, but with need, a need that seemed to tear him apart even as it pulled him closer to you.

And without hesitation, as impulsive as he is — he kissed your bloodied hand.

The kiss was rough, hurried, as if he feared everything would slip away before he had the chance to claim it. His lips brushed over the wound with a strange tenderness that conflicted with the violence of the moment and his grip on your wrist. He didn’t pull back when he felt the blood smear across his pale skin. Instead, his eyes closed for just a heartbeat, as if he was drowning in your blood, in the sight of it. The red streaked across his lips, staining him as much as it stained you. It was the mark of your suffering, the scar of your devotion. And yet, you decided there was no cruelty in his touch now.

When he finally pulled away, he lowered your hand with an unsteady movement. Then, in a way that felt almost fragile, as if the very act of smiling could destroy him, he fought to offer you the semblance of a smile. His lips, stained with blood, parted in a tremulous grin—teeth bared while the gold in his mouth shone, chin red. The whole act as if to say this is me. This is us.

And you couldn’t look away.

a/n: this might be a prequel to a period sex fic ive been wanting to make… thank you for reading.

[baby-yongbok]

Remedies

OT8 x Reader

Genre - Comfort WC - 746

Summary - These are ways that I think the boys would help you to get over your mental and/or physical struggles Content Warning - Themes of mental and physical illness/struggles, mention of hospitals, mentions of medications/needles, mentions of food

A/N - I wrote this on my living room floor just now because I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of being chronically ill, and I needed some comfort, so I thought I’d share it for anyone else who could use some comfort, too. I based these off of my experiences with my illnesses/disabilities. If you can relate then I just wanna say that i see you and you're strong. Keep fighting 💕+ I tried to write this to be gender neutral, I think I nailed it

✧ Masterlist ✧

Hugs from Jisung when your panic attacks have subsided. He whispers sweet praises of “You're okay” and “You're so strong” while he rocks you in his lap. You're still on the floor where he found you. His shirt soaks up every tear and his soft kisses on your forehead bandage every wound. You tell him that he can go, you apologize for causing a commotion, but he just holds you closer.

Laughing with Changbin while he tries to distract you from your symptoms flaring up. He's loud and silly on the couch with you. He's careful not to go overboard, he watches you to make sure that you're still comfortable while he makes silly voices and dances around for you. He's not ready to watch you cry yourself to sleep from the pain but he'll be ready to make you laugh again when you need it most.

Kisses from Chan while you're at your doctor's appointment. Your leg is shaking and he's soothing gentle circles into your back while he kisses your knuckles. He knows that you're scared, he is too. You have no idea what the doctor will say but he knows one thing for sure, no matter what the results are he'll be right by your side. He'll fight with you every single day and he'll kiss the pain away.

Adventures with Hyunjin when he realizes that you're avoiding going outside again. He knows that you get paranoid. He knows that every corner that you turn feels unsafe so he holds your hand. He skips across streets with you and dances on the white lines of the cross walks. He pulls you into shops that you've been too scared to visit yourself and buys you everything that you touch. He molds new memories with you with his bare hands. He'll do it everyday if he has to.

Cooking with Minho when he sees that you've been watching your diet too closely. He's gentle with you. You taste test everything together, he feeds you with silver spoons and kisses your nose with every hesitant swallow. He stands behind you while you stir the contents in the pots and plucks flour at you to see that pretty smile that he loves so much. He feeds you from his fork and he wipes away the mess. He makes it feel like it all goes down easy.

Reading with Seungmin when he comes to visit you in the hospital. He knows that you feel like you're going mad in here. He knows that you want to get up out of bed and walk out of here with him, that's what he wants too. Instead he holds your hand while you rest your head on his shoulder. He reads you each word with a softness that somehow drowns out the beeping of your monitors and the commotion on the other side of the curtain. He transports you to a place where you aren't sick. To a place where it's just you and him.

Cuddling with Jeongin when you feel that dark cloud consuming you again. He knew what was wrong when you let your alarms ring on for the third day in a row. You're huddled under blankets together, unmoving and quiet. His arms circle your waist and he pulls you closer. He weighs you down to reality. He makes you feel something besides the bubbling emptiness in your chest. He hums to you when the tears start to fall. He hums and holds you tighter. He won't let you drift away.

Singing with Felix while he helps you with your medication. There's so many to take that you've been overwhelmed with it all so he puts on a playlist and grabs all your pills. He lays them out and organizes them just how you need them. He uses the TV remote as a microphone, passing it to you when he sees you staring at the medicine littering the tabletop. He has you sing for him when he gives you your injections. He makes them as quick and painless as he can, always joining you for a high note as he sticks the band-aid on for you. He spins and hugs you once you're done for the day. He doesn't have to give you any praise, you can feel the love in his touch. You can hear it in his voice and see it in his actions. He's always going to be there to make it all feel easier.

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[reiderwriter]

Well, Are You Mine?

Final Chapter of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Spencer adjusts to fatherhood alone.

Warnings: Angst, hopeful ending, mentions Canon character death (Gideon), mentions of new parent stress, single parenthood, etc.

A/N: I'm back! The final chapter is finally here, and I'm so very happy!! Thank you all for waiting patiently while I recovered from my illness. It's monsoon season here right now, so I've been hit with just depressing wave after wave of coughs, colds, fevers, and general rainy season ailments. But now this is finished! Thank you for joining ke on this three month journey. I'll be publishing a much happier, much fluffier epilogue within the week, so please look forward to that~♡ Without further ado, The End.

In the six weeks since his daughter had been born, Spencer Reid had experienced what he could solidly call the most terrifying weeks of his life.

The baby cried, and his heart beat out of his chest. Rain or shine, fully awake or fully knocked out, a single gargle or a full on scream and he was sprinting to her side to coo her back to blissful sleep, or to change her, or just to hold her close.

In the six weeks up to her birth, he'd pointedly avoided parenting books on the whole, doing his best to drown out all the memories from reading similar books when JJ was pregnant. Every memory stung as he clawed his way back to the family that was prematurely ripped from him.

But the baby was here now. The baby was safe, and the baby was crying, which he knew was absolutely healthy and nothing to worry about, and completely and totally fine, except it dropped his heart to his stomach everytime she did it.

It wasn't as if your daughter was a particularly fussy child. She was a newborn, she was a healthy weight and size, and the doctors who had checked her over at the hospital after her birth had reassured him multiple times that she was totally healthy. A miracle, all things considered.

And she was his miracle. For six weeks, she'd been his little wonder.

The team had banded together to fix up his apartment while she'd been observed in the hospital for the first few days of her life.

He'd sat and watched her through the newborn window at the hospital while Penelope had cleaned up his apartment, and Luke had built him a crib.

Emily and JJ had gone hunting for baby clothes and found probably a lifetime supply of 0-3 months, 3-6 months, and 6-9 months babygrows, t-shirts, dresses, and matching little hair bows for everything.

The first time he'd seen the socks, he'd broken down.

Arriving back with his newborn daughter to his apartment, he'd carried her to her new room, desk removed and crib added, though the walls were still shelved with books he really needed to do something with. He'd opened the sock drawer and been faced with a drawer full of single socks. There wasn't a matching pair in sight.

He'd pulled his daughter into his arms and held her close as the tears fell once again.

It had been six weeks since you'd delivered your first baby, and Spencer was sure that if you had the opportunity, you'd be cussing him out continuously.

Because as much as he doted on his daughter, his sweet baby, who he swore was already smiling sweetly up at him each time she grabbed his pinkie with her whole tiny fist, he had still not given her a a name.

“We can't just call her baby,” Emily complained to him after three days, already getting restless with Spencer's lack of decisiveness.

“I won't name her without Y/N,” he'd replied, and Emily had shut her mouth, not willing to open up that can of worms around him just yet. The sudden silence whenever he mentioned you was deafening. Spencer felt the team growing rigid each time he said something even slightly hopeful, then gently tried to lead him back to being ‘realistic.’

It had been six weeks since you'd given birth, and smiled at him sweetly as you brought you'd daughter into the world and six weeks since you'd quietly slipped into a peaceful coma.

The first week, he'd been told to prepare himself for the worst. The second week, he'd been told there was nothing more that they could do.

But in the third week, you'd moved. Just your hand, just a twitch, but a sign of life the doctors had been trying to convince him wasn't there before.

In the fourth week, you'd recovered enough to be taken off the ventilator.

You were clawing your way back to consciousness, readying yourself to meet your precious, sweet baby.

In the sixth week after Spencer Reid became a father, he took his daughter back to the hospital to meet her mother again. With some expert baby-sitting from Penelope, he'd managed to visit you once every two days at least in the last few months, but with the little-one still only small, hospital visits to trauma wards weren't exactly recommended.

When they'd transferred you to a regular ward, he'd packed his bags immediately and gathered the baby up, strapping her into her carrier and waiting desperately for visiting hours to begin.

After thirty minutes, he made a call.

“Emily? Can I… can we get a ride?”

Of course, she'd agreed. While no one else had been letting themselves hope, they had absolutely been at his beck and call. He'd been swamped with guilt calling JJ at 3am asking how to settle you because he'd tried everything, and constantly relying on Penelope to come and help him and Luke and Emily, picking up extra hours to finish his paperwork because his paternity leave still hadn't been approved.

He felt guilty, overwhelmed, and stressed, and he needed you to wake up so goddamn much that he feared if he got any bad news, he would shatter. And he didn't know how to be a father, because really he hadn't had one before he was 20 and Gideon became his, and even he had left when things got hard. So how could he be sure he wouldn't.

So he hadn't given his daughter a name. And, yes, it was because he wanted to do it with you, to pick out a name together, but also it was because he didn't think he could stand knowing it if he was too weak and ran from her.

The pressure built and built for six weeks, as he fell in love with his daughter, who deserved better than his love, and then Emily pulled up in his car, and he started sobbing.

“Spencer!” Emily exclaimed, not expecting the outburst at all, the loneliness of the last five months catching up to him finally.

“Emily… Emily, I'm a terrible father-”

“No! No, sweetie, you're-”

“My daughter doesn't have a name!”

Emily switched the engine off and then grabbed Spencer's shoulder, roughly turning him to face her if he wouldn't meet her in the eyes.

“You have survived this job for nearly two decades. You have survived gunshots, and murderers, and loss that I can not begin to comprehend, and you love that child. You are grieving, and you are stressed, and it is so totally, completely normal to not be okay after everything you've been through,” Emily held her breath, waiting for his reply. Just as he opened his mouth to whisper more doubts, the baby in the back seat began to fuss and cry.

Unable to stop himself, Spencer laughed. Emily laughed with him. They sat giggling in the car together, tears in their eyes as his daughter kicked up a fuss.

“She doesn't like hearing you talk badly about her daddy,” Emily joked and started the engine again.

When Spencer finally made it to your room, his daughter had stopped fussing. A quick bottle in the parking lot had mollified her, and she was gurgling softly now, still pink, her eyes tightly closed. He'd dressed her up nicely, or as nicely as he could muster. A cute pink newborn dress for his tiny baby and a matching pink hair bow.

He gathered the baby carrier in his arms and let the hospital doors open for him.

Finding your new ward wasn't hard. The nurses were helpful enough and honestly, he'd taken a look at the building blueprints weeks before, when he'd been obsessing over every small detail of your care, so he practically knew the route by himself.

Straight, then a left turn, then straight again, and a right turn and keep going until there was a final turn into your ward.

He let out a deep sigh as soon as he reached the nurses station and readied himself to ask for you.

“Hello, I'm here to see my Y/N, I was told she was transferred here this morning?”

The nurses on the station looked up at him in shock and blinked at him a few times before speaking up. If ever there was a time to hear the words “you haven't heard?” uttered from the mouth of a nurse in a hospital where your comatose girlfriend was being treated, then it likely wasn't when he held a newborn in his already weak arms.

The panic set in quickly as he tuned the noise out. An older nurse walked around the side of the desk to comfort him, sticking by his side and grabbing the baby carrier before he could accidentally let it go in his shock.

Another nurse came to his side to take care of the baby, and quickly, they both ushered him down another hall to an adjacent ward. He drowned out every word as they tried to comfort and reassure him, his brain jumping to the worst conclusions.

His teammates were right when they said he shouldn't hope. He needed to be realistic now. If you were gone, he had to call your family and organize the funeral. He had to pack up your stuff. He had to settle the hospital bills and decide how you would be seen off.

He had to name his daughter.

The nurses pushed him towards the room quickly, and he mentally prepared himself to say goodbye, but as the doors swung open, he saw you, and he fell to his knees.

“Spencer?”

In the two hours since you'd woken up, you'd been poked, prodded, hydrated, fed, rubbed down, and spoken over like you were still somewhat asleep.

No one had explained exactly what had happened, and no one explained where your baby was, and you'd kicked and screamed yourself hoarse, as the doctors noted down that you still had use of your vocal chords and all four limbs.

So seeing Spencer crash into your room at full force through your tear filled eyes was the best experience you'd had in months, especially when you spotted the nurse with the baby sized car seat coming in behind him.

“Is that my baby? Is that my baby? Please-” You pushed sheets off your body as a nurse tried to hold you still, not wanting you to pull the IV from your arm or the oxygen tubes from your face.

And suddenly Spencer was there, and he'd regained his strength, and his hope, and his happiness because you were awake, and talking and god you remembered.

It was all he could do not to grab you, bundle you up, and carry you away to safety, but the nurse propping you up was stern-looking, and he had a daughter to tend to.

He pulled your face into his hands and kissed you as softly as he could, holding back his emotion as he held you like you would break, feeling your wet tears on his skin.

“I missed you,” he whispered, dropping his forehead to yours as he gently stepped back and allowed the nurses to help you get comfortable.

Then he turned quickly and grabbed your daughter, and your breath caught in your throat as he held her out to you.

“What do I…? Where should I put my hands- Oh god, I'm so unprepared, I-” your eyes welled again, but it was joy as you saw her serene little sleeping face for the first time and he slowly lowered her into your arms. It turns out, no-one needed to help you out holding her at all, because she was so precious and perfect and yours that she slotted into your arms completely, like it was a spot made completely for her, like you'd been purpose made to hold her and be her mother and love her and cherish her.

You cried and looked up at Spencer and laughed. He rested on the side of the bed and pulled you into his arms, and you felt that completeness a second time, and you knew that you were made for him the way she was made for you.

Your family.

It had almost been taken for you, but it was yours, and it was fate.

With a quiet whisper that only Spencer could hear, you leant down to your baby's ear and said your first words to her.

“I wish that I could be your mother in every lifetime, my sweet Angel.”

[thef1diary]

While It Lasts | L. Norris - 2

Summary: Lando expected nothing more than relaxation and fun for two weeks during his summer break. What he didn’t anticipate was meeting you, someone who felt like a perfect match in every way. As the days quickly passed, he found himself falling deeply for you, only to be confronted with the heart-wrenching reality that your time together was far more limited than he ever imagined.

Part 1

PLEASE READ: This story contains themes of loss, morality, fear, death, relationship strains, mental health struggles, including significant emotional impact related to the reader’s journey with a chronic illness and some scenes are set in hospitals. Reminder that this is simply a work of fiction, please don’t take it to heart.

wc: 16.5k

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

You woke up to the faint clattering of dishes in the kitchen. Groggily, you opened your eyes, feeling the stiffness from sleeping awkwardly on the couch. Stretching, you realized Isaac was already up, making breakfast. 

“Isaac,” you called out, your voice hoarse from sleep. 

He didn’t seem to hear you, the noise of the kitchen drowning out your voice. With a sigh, you decided to hobble over to him, each step a reminder of your twisted ankle and the awkward position you’d slept in.

Reaching the kitchen, you leaned against the doorway for support. “Isaac,” you said a bit louder.

He turned, surprise and concern crossing his face. “You should be resting.”

“I know,” you replied, wincing slightly as you moved closer. “But we need to talk.”

Isaac set down the pan he was holding, his expression turning serious. “Alright, let’s talk.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words you were about to say. “Isaac, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. I know you’re just trying to take care of me.”

He shook his head, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and pain. “Every single day for the past four years, I have this fear that you’ll leave me at any moment. Yes, it is selfish, very selfish because I truly don’t know what you’re feeling, what you’re going through. But while you might’ve accepted that you’re dying, I didn’t! I just wanted to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, so you can live another day, so you can see me graduate college, see me – I don’t know – find the love of my life or get married. I’m sorry. You’re my sister, you are the last person I need to act like I’m on eggshells around you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the depth of his fear and love hitting you hard. “Your fear is valid, Isaac. Just because I’ve accepted it, doesn’t mean that I like it. But it won’t change fate, will it? It won’t change the fact that I’ve been dealt a shitty hand at life. All I know is that when I’m taking my last breaths, whenever it is, I don’t want to regret anything. I don’t want to regret not living enough because of the fear of dying. Just because I have a stupid countdown doesn’t mean I should be afraid to live.”

Isaac looked at you, his eyes moist with unshed tears. “I just want you to be here, to live as long as possible.”

“I know,” you whispered, reaching out to engulf him in a hug. “I’ll try to take better care of myself.” 

He nodded slowly, his grip tightening around your body. “And I’ll try to be less overprotective, I promise, I’ll try.”

You smiled, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Thank you, Isaac.”

As you stood there, holding onto each other in the quiet morning light, you felt a sense of peace. When he pulled back, he scrunched up his face. “But it’ll be harder to explain that to mum and dad.” 

You shrugged, “they’ll get it, one day, hopefully.” 

After breakfast, Isaac announced he needed to run some errands in town. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

You nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Take your time.”

As the door closed behind him, the house fell into a quiet lull. You settled back on the couch, trying to get comfortable and rest your ankle. Just as you were starting to drift off, the doorbell rang.

With a sigh, you swung your legs off the couch and hobbled toward the door, wincing with each step. When you finally reached it and pulled it open, you were greeted by Lando’s mischievous grin that quickly turned into worry.

“Hey,” he said, his brow furrowed as he took in your hobbling form. “You shouldn’t be up and about. How’s the ankle?”

“Hey, Lando,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe for support. “It’s sore but I’ll survive. Come in.”

He stepped inside, immediately reaching out to steady you. “Here, let me help you back to the couch.”

You nodded, grateful for his support. You leaned against him and held his hand as he guided you back to your spot on the couch. You couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his touch and the genuine concern in his eyes. 

“Thanks,” you said once you were settled again. “What brings you here?”

Lando shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re not getting into any more trouble.”

You chuckled softly. “Well, I did manage to twist my ankle pretty badly.”

His expression turned serious. “I know. I felt terrible leaving you like that last night.”

“It’s alright, I was already sleeping before you left,” you waved off his concern. 

“Speaking of falling asleep…” Lando began, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I couldn’t resist stopping by the bookstore you mentioned. Figured I’d pick up a couple of books to keep us entertained.”

You grinned, appreciating his thoughtfulness. “You went to the bookstore? You really are determined to explore every corner of this town, aren’t you?”

Lando nodded enthusiastically, pulling the books out of the bag he carried when he entered. “Of course! And since my favorite tour guide is out of commission,” he said, gesturing to your injured ankle, “I had to take matters into my own hands.”

He revealed two identical books, holding them up with a grin. “Thought we could have a reading competition. Winner gets bragging rights.”

You chuckled, shaking your head in amusement. “It’s always a competition with you, isn’t it?”

Lando shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a competitive guy. Comes with the territory. Oh, and by the way,” he added casually, “did I mention I’m a Formula 1 driver?”

You blinked, surprised by the revelation. “Wait, seriously?”

Lando grinned, “yeah, been racing for quite a few years now.” 

You nodded, a smile spreading on your face when he delved into the details, and it’s evident that he loves talking about his passion. 

“That actually makes so much sense, that’s how you know the Sainz family, right?” 

Lando’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yes, but how do you know them?”

You laughed softly, and it quickly became a sound Lando loved hearing. “I live next to the villa, remember?” You teased jokingly. 

A sheepish smile grew on his face, “oh, right. So what, you’ve met Carlos too? And here I thought I was the first F1 driver you’ve met.” 

You nodded. “Yeah, in passing. We never really talked much, but I’ve seen him and his family around often.”

Then you leaned closer and whispered, “but don’t tell him that he may no longer be my favourite.” 

He quirked up an eyebrow, leaning in as well and responding with the same amount of energy. “Then who is?” 

You shrugged, leaning back with a small smile and a faint blush covering your cheeks. “I think I might have to watch a race to decide.” 

As you continued chatting with Lando, the pain in your ankle seemed to fade into the background. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself drawn into his stories about racing, the thrill of waiting for the lights to go out, and the camaraderie between his fellow drivers. 

Eventually, you decided to start the reading competition. Both of you settled into the couch with your respective books, determined to see who would finish first. But as the minutes ticked by, Lando found it hard to focus on his book. His gaze kept drifting to you, watching the way your eyes moved across the pages and the little expressions that flitted across your face as you read.

He couldn’t help but want to talk to you, to hear more about your thoughts. Finally, he put his book down with a sigh, unable to concentrate any longer.

“So, what’s next on the agenda once your ankle’s better? Something less adventurous, perhaps?”

You placed your book down after marking your page, chuckling as you looked at him. “Can’t focus, can you?” 

“Not with you around,” he shrugged casually. 

Trapping your lip between your teeth to prevent a smile from growing on your face, you chose to focus on the question he asked. 

“There’s this amazing seafood restaurant nearby. It’s a local favorite, and the food is incredible. Fresh catches of the day, and the chef’s specials are to die for. You’ll love it!”

As you spoke, you didn’t notice Lando’s face pale slightly. He wasn’t a fan of seafood, but he couldn’t bring himself to dampen your excitement by telling you the truth. The way your eyes lit up talking about the place made him want to experience it with you, even if he never wanted to be around any sort of fish. 

“Sounds great,” Lando said, forcing a smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

You clapped your hands together, beaming. “You won’t regret it, I promise. The view from the restaurant is amazing too. It’s right by the water, and you can see the boats coming in and out of the harbor. It’s a perfect spot for a relaxing evening.”

Lando nodded, matching your enthusiasm as best he could. “That sounds perfect. I can’t wait.”

“How about we go there for dinner tomorrow?” you suggested, your excitement bubbling over.

“Tomorrow night it is,” Lando agreed, his smile genuine due to your smile despite his seafood reservations. 

The next evening came around too quickly for Lando’s liking. Instead of stressing over what to wear this time, he was worried about the food itself. The prospect of seafood was daunting, but he didn’t want to let you down. As he rummaged through his closet, Max walked into the room with a teasing grin.

“Mate, you like her so much that you’d willingly eat seafood for her?” Max said, leaning against the doorframe.

Lando looked up, a mixture of nerves and amusement on his face. “Yeah, well, it’s not just about the food. It’s about the company.”

He chuckled, “you’re a brave man.” Then he sighed exaggeratedly, “oh the things you do in love.” 

Lando’s back straightened suddenly. “It’s not love… yet. We’re just hanging out.” 

Max’s eyes widened since he didn’t expect such an answer, “wait a second, ‘yet’? Do you actually like her?”

Lando shrugged, trying to play it off, but the slight smile on his face betrayed him. “I don’t know, Max. Maybe. It’s… complicated.”

Max studied him for a moment, then a grin spread across his face. “I should’ve seen it coming, but she’s great! Maybe even a little out of your league,” he spoke with a teasing grin, that only made Lando roll his eyes when he saw his best friend’s face. 

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly, not denying Max’s words.

Max's teasing grin softened into a more serious expression. "Hey, I'm serious though. You don't have to go through with this if you're not comfortable. You shouldn't feel like you have to force yourself to like something just to impress her."

Lando appreciated Max's concern, but he shook his head. "It's not about impressing her. I want to spend time with her, Max. She's... she's different."

Max raised an eyebrow, a knowing look in his eyes. "Different, huh? Well, just be careful, okay?"

Lando nodded, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty and anticipation. "Of course."

As Max left the room, Lando took a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew Max was just looking out for him, but there was something about you that made him want to take the risk. With a determined smile, he finished getting ready and was about to head out to meet you, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement building inside him.

Right as he was leaving the villa, Max’s voice rang out. “If you need an excuse to skip out, I can come up with something. No need to torture yourself over fish.”

Lando shook his head, appreciating the concern. “Thanks, Max, but I’ll be fine. I just… I don’t want to ruin this. She’s really excited about the place.”

A very short drive later, Lando knocked on your door, and when you opened it, his eyes widened appreciatively as they swept over you. You wore a simple yet elegant dress, the color complementing your features perfectly.

“Wow,” he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You look amazing.”

Blushing slightly at his compliment, you thanked him and closed the door behind you as you left your cottage, walking towards Lando’s car. “Thanks, Lando, you don’t look too bad yourself.”

He fell in step beside you, still admiring your outfit. “So, do you have a hot date or something?”

You chuckled at his question, shaking your head. “Nope, no dates, just going out with some racer guy, not sure if you know him.” 

Sitting in his car, he instantly looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “Hmm, sounds like a great guy! Is he interesting?” 

You laughed, nudging him as he drove. “Very.” 

When you arrived at the restaurant, the sun was just starting to set, casting a golden glow over the water. It was nestled right by the harbor, with a perfect view of the boats coming and going. Lando parked the car and helped you out, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary as he offered support for your still-healing ankle. Even though you could walk without needing support again, you didn’t mind holding onto his hand. 

“Wow, this place is beautiful,” he said, genuinely impressed by the picturesque setting.

“I told you,” you replied with a satisfied smile. “Come on, let’s get a table by the window.”

The interior of the restaurant was cozy, with soft lighting and a gentle murmur of conversation filling the air. A small fish tank adorned one corner of the room, the colorful fish swimming lazily in the water. Lando couldn’t help but chuckle nervously as he glanced at the tank.

“Kinda cruel, isn’t it?” he joked, nodding towards the fish tank. "Having live fish in a seafood restaurant," Lando remarked with a wry smile. 

Still, you laughed, nodding in agreement. "The owners think it adds to the ambiance."

As you were seated and handed the menus, Lando took a deep breath, steeling himself for the seafood-heavy options. But when he looked across the table and saw your excited expression, he hoped it would all be worth it. This evening was about enjoying your company, and he was determined to do just that, and perhaps if everything went very well, he might casually mention that he’d like to take you out on an actual date. 

As the waiter took your orders, you couldn't contain your excitement, eager to indulge in the fresh seafood the restaurant had to offer. Lando, however, seemed a bit hesitant, but he eventually settled on a dish, trying to mask his apprehension with a smile.

Once the food arrived, you dug in eagerly, savoring each bite of the delicious seafood. However, as you glanced over at Lando, you noticed something was off. His attempts to conceal his discomfort were evident, and you could see the struggle on his face as he hesitantly bit into a shrimp, his expression revealing disgust as he tried to swallow it. 

Concerned, you leaned closer to him, your voice soft with worry. "Is everything okay, Lando?"

He hesitated, clearly torn, spitting the piece of shrimp into a tissue before finally admitting, "I'm sorry, I just... I can't do seafood."

Surprised by his confession, you felt a pang of guilt wash over you. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Lando shrugged, looking sheepish. "I didn't want to ruin your plans, you looked so excited to come here and I thought I could handle it, but..."

Without hesitation, you reached out, taking his hand in yours. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Leading him out of the restaurant, you felt a mix of disappointment and concern. Disappointed that he didn’t feel comfortable sharing such a simple detail with you, and concerned that he attempted to eat a shrimp, knowing he disliked it, all for your sake.

But as you walked together, you were determined to salvage the evening because you didn’t want the night to end just yet. "How about we find a burger place? Is that something you'll enjoy."

Lando's gratitude was evident in his smile as he nodded, and together, you set off to find a new spot to continue your evening, determined to make it memorable for all the right reasons.

You and Lando ended up sitting in his car, munching on takeout burgers and fries, the mood was light and laughter filled the air. Lando was in the middle of telling a funny story from his racing season, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he recounted the antics of how multiple of his fellow drivers tried to convince him to try seafood but failed. 

You couldn’t help but laugh along, enjoying the animated way he described each moment. You playfully nudged Lando, a grin spreading across your face. “Well, it seems like all those F1 drivers couldn’t get you to try seafood, but I did, even if it was just a bite!”

Lando leaned back in his seat, a lighthearted smile playing on his lips. “You know, for you, I’d try anything… except seafood.”

As you heard Lando's words, a soft realization came to you that his remark held a hint of flirtation.

“Why don’t you like seafood anyways?” you couldn’t help but ask, especially since this town was full of loads of seafood options and now you had to think of other restaurants for him to try. 

Lando shrugged, taking another bite of his burger before answering. “I guess it’s just not my thing. I’ve never been a fan of the taste or the texture.”

As you indulged in your burger, a smear of sauce found its way to the corner of your lips. Lando's eyes caught the small detail, and with a gentle smile, he pointed it out. "You've got a little something right there."

You chuckled, raising your hand to wipe it away, but before you could, Lando's fingers grazed over the corner of your lips, wiping away the sauce. His touch was gentle, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary as he leaned in close.

A subtle warmth spread through you at the intimacy of the gesture, and for a moment, time seemed to slow as you met his gaze. There was something unspoken between you, a silent acknowledgment of the growing connection that seemed to deepen with each passing moment.

His fingers lingered at the edge of your lips, and you could feel his breath, warm and inviting, mingling with yours. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you in that fleeting instant.

“Lando…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. The space between you grew smaller, your faces inching closer together.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes flicking down to your lips and back up to your eyes. The anticipation was electric, a charged moment that seemed to stretch on forever.

But then, he pulled back, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. “I don’t want our first kiss to be like this,” he murmured, his voice soft but resolute. “You deserve a proper date first.”

A mix of disappointment and warmth washed over you. His thoughtfulness, his desire to make things right, only made your heart ache more with affection. Amidst the laughter and shared stories, his words hung between you, a promise of something more.

As quickly as the thought arose, the weight of your illness pressed down on you, reminding you of life's fragility and the uncertainty of tomorrow. Your thoughts lingered on wondering if you even had a future in general. To entertain the idea of a future with him would only cause your heart to ache, knowing that you might not live to see those dreams come true. 

The thought of a future, a proper date, a real kiss—all of it seemed so painfully out of reach.

It was a bittersweet realization, knowing that even the simplest of dreams could be overshadowed by the reality of your condition. While he would return back to the fast paced world of racing, you would remain in this small town, wondering how many more dreams you would have to crush because fate decided to take away your life, inch by inch. 

Awkwardness filled the car on your end, your emotions shifting to cold and stoic, like they were before you met him. The warm connection you had felt only moments ago was replaced by a wall you erected to protect your heart. Lando noticed the change, his cheerful demeanor faltering as the silence grew heavy between you.

Soon enough, you both finished your burgers, and Lando started the car to drive you home. The ride was quiet, the earlier laughter and easy conversation now replaced by a tension that neither of you acknowledged. When he pulled up to your house, he turned off the engine and looked at you, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“Do you want me to walk you to the door?” he asked softly.

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, it’s fine. Thanks for the evening, Lando.”

He watched as you climbed out of the car, a confused and worried expression on his face. As you walked to your door, you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t look back. You shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment as a tear threatened to slip down your cheek.

Lando sat in his car, staring at the closed door, wondering what he had done wrong and why the evening had ended on such a somber note. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had changed, but he had no idea what it was or how to fix it.

— 

Over the next couple of days, you don’t acknowledge the thoughts that are bubbling up in your mind, instead choosing to tread carefully and immerse yourself in your daily routine. You’ve lived a lot more than you have over the past couple of months, and felt the joy that it brings. But now, you had to face the consequences causing you to distance yourself away from Lando before you got too attached to the happiness that came with being around him. Once you realized that you truly wanted to kiss him that night, everything changed. You had to take a preemptive measure, a self-imposed boundary designed to shield your heart from potential pain. 

Your health deteriorated significantly. Your energy waned, and simple tasks like walking around the house left you breathless and exhausted. Fortunately, you have a doctor’s appointment scheduled, a simple routine checkup. However, it coincided with plans you made with Lando. Determined to distance yourself from him, you don’t tell him about the change of plans. 

At the doctor’s appointment, you sit in the sterile examination room, the familiar scent of antiseptic mingling with nerves that coil in the pit of your stomach. These appointments, routine yet crucial, serve as a barometer of your ongoing battle against your illness.

As the doctor enters, his expression is professional yet compassionate, his eyes scanning through your medical history with a practiced ease. You recount the recent symptoms you’ve been experiencing, the fatigue that seems to seep into your bones, and the persistent ache that lingers despite treatment.

With a sympathetic nod, the doctor orders a series of tests, his urgency palpable as he reviews your file. The minutes stretch into an eternity as you wait for the results, each passing second filled with a silent plea for a glimmer of hope.

When the test results finally come back, the doctor’s demeanor shifts subtly, his tone measured yet grave. “I’m afraid the results are not as we had hoped,” he begins, his words heavy with significance.

Your heart sinks at the confirmation of your worst fears, the reality of your illness casting a shadow over your hopes for improvement. Despite your best efforts, it seems that the tide of your health is turning against you once again.

A sense of dread fills you as he explains that the illness has advanced more rapidly than expected. “We need to keep you overnight for observation,” he says gently. “Your vitals are unstable, and we need to adjust your treatment plan.” 

You nod, too emotionally tired to object, allowing a nurse to lead you to the hospital room, one that you became too familiar with over the past few years. You would spend yet another night under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, experience another round of tests and treatments, and take another uncertain step into the abyss of your illness.

You lie in the hospital bed, hooked up to various machines, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over you like a heavy blanket. The familiar beeps and hums of the medical equipment provide a disconcerting backdrop to your thoughts, each sound a reminder of the precariousness of your health.

As you drift in and out of consciousness, your mind wanders to Lando, the plans you had made together now nothing more than distant dreams. Guilt gnaws at the edges of your consciousness, knowing that he waits for you, unaware of the sudden turn your day has taken.

Just as the shadows of doubt threaten to overwhelm you, a soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. Startled, you turn to see Isaac's familiar face framed in the doorway, concern etched into his features.

"Hey," he says softly, crossing the room to sit beside you. "I got your text. Are you okay?"

You manage a weak smile, grateful for his presence amidst the sterile confines of the hospital room. "Yeah, just another setback," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Isaac reaches out to squeeze your hand gently, his touch a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty. "You’ll get through this," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.

As Isaac settles into the chair beside your hospital bed, he observes the flurry of activity around you—the nurses bustling about, the doctors conferring in hushed tones, tweaking the machines, their purpose still a mystery to him after all these visits.

When there's a lull in the commotion, Isaac hesitates before speaking, his voice soft with concern. "Hey, I wanted to let you know... Lando stopped by the cottage today."

“What’d he say?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"He asked about you today," Isaac begins, his tone gentle. "Said you had plans but you didn't show. He mentioned he hasn't seen you in a couple of days. Is everything okay between you two?"

You nod weakly, offering a small smile to reassure Isaac. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just... I don't know, I guess I realized that I've been enjoying his company a lot more than I should, given my condition."

He frowns, “what’s wrong with that? You’re both happy around each other, so why are you distancing yourself away from him?” 

You scoff, “have you seen me?” You raise your arm that has an IV inserted, along with the other wires connected to you. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Isaac insists gently. “He cares about you. You deserve happiness too, regardless of what’s going on with your health.”

You shake your head, a hint of frustration in your voice. “You don’t understand, Isaac. I don’t have a guarantee of how I’m spending the next week, let alone the rest of my life. I don’t want to hurt Lando by snatching away his happiness one day too. I’m just… preventing myself, and him, from getting too attached to each other.”

Isaac sighs, his expression softening with understanding. "You're not scared of getting too attached, are you? You already are, whether you admit it or not. But by staying away, you're only hurting yourself and him more."

You avert your gaze, feeling the weight of his words sinking in. "I know," you admit quietly. "But I don't know what else to do."

"He deserves to know if he's falling in love with you," Isaac says gently, his voice filled with concern. "And you deserve to have someone by your side, especially during the tough times."

You let out a heavy sigh, knowing he's right but still unsure of what to do next. "I guess I did find someone that fate hates more than me."

"So you agree, that he's in love with you?" Isaac probes, searching your eyes for confirmation.

"He's only in love because he barely knows me," you reply, your voice tinged with sadness.

“Maybe you should give him a chance to know you, the real you,” he responds. 

You bite your lip, unsure of how to respond. Deep down, you know Isaac is right, but the fear of hurting Lando is overwhelming. Yet, the thought of pushing him away hurts just as much.

Before you can dwell on it further, a nurse enters the room, breaking the momentary silence. Isaac gives you a reassuring smile before standing up to give you some privacy. As he leaves, his words linger in the air, leaving you to contemplate the complexities of your situation.

The next morning, you’re discharged, feeling even more drained. The doctors have adjusted your medications, but the prognosis remains grim. 

You left the hospital, walking in step beside Isaac for a moment until he headed towards the parking lot to bring the car around. As you were blinking in the bright morning sunlight, you nearly collided with Max, who was just outside chatting with someone on his phone.

“Hey there!” Max greets you with a wide grin, sliding his phone into his pocket. However, his expression quickly turns into a frown as he notices the hospital wristband adorning your wrist. “Wait, were you in there?” he asks, concern lacing his words. “Is everything okay?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily or dive into the complexities of your recent hospital stay. “Oh, it was just a routine checkup, some bloodwork, you know how that goes, nothing to worry about,” you assure him with a tight-lipped smile.

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, clearly not entirely convinced by your explanation, but he decides not to press further. 

He glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “I was just at the café right down the street.” 

You nod, “good choice, they make the best coffee in town.” 

He smiled as his choice was approved by you. “Do you need a ride? I’m heading back to the villa.”

You shook your head, “no it’s alright, Isaac’s bringing the car around.”

“Alright, I guess I’ll see you around, only a few more days left before we leave this paradise,” he reminds you. 

You offer him a grateful nod. “Yeah, time flies, doesn’t it?” you reply with a forced smile since you were hoping to return home soon. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

As Max nods in agreement and starts to walk away, you can’t shake the feeling that he suspects something isn’t quite right. But you push the thought aside, determined to focus on the present moment and put on a brave face as you step away from the hospital and back into the world outside.

As Isaac parks in the driveway, you notice Lando pacing back and forth by the front door, his brows furrowed in concern. The sight of him fills you with a tumult of conflicting emotions. Isaac’s words echo in your mind, urging you to be honest with Lando, to tell him how much you care about him, to share the burden of your illness. But fear gnaws at your insides, whispering that revealing the truth will only drive him away. 

His expression changes from relief to frustration as he sees you approaching.

“Where were you?” he demanded, his voice tinged with worry. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” 

As you and Lando stand in front of each other, locked in a tense silence, Isaac takes a step back, sensing the need for privacy between you two. With a subtle nod, he heads inside the cottage, leaving you and Lando alone on the doorstep.

The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you both with its palpable intensity. You struggle to find the right words to break the silence, to bridge the growing chasm between you, but fear and uncertainty grip you like a vice, paralyzing your tongue.

Lando shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you as if searching for answers in the depths of your eyes. His expression is a mix of hurt and confusion, mirroring the tumultuous storm raging within your own heart.

You want to tell Lando the truth, to let him in, but the thought of exposing your vulnerabilities terrifies you. You can’t bear the idea of him seeing you as fragile, of pitying you. So, holding your head up high, you decide to make him hate you before he realizes that he loves you. 

You force a nonchalant shrug, trying to play it off. “I had some errands to run, and I forgot we had plans.”

“Forgot?” he repeats, incredulous. “We made those plans a while ago. Forget that, I haven’t seen you for days. What’s really going on?”

Annoyed, and wanting to distance yourself from him before your feelings grow even stronger, you let a hint of irritation seep into your voice. “I don’t owe you an explanation for everything I do, Lando. It’s not a big deal.”

He’s taken aback by your rudeness, his face falling slightly. “Not a big deal? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“Well, you don’t need to be,” you say curtly, avoiding his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

An awkward silence falls between you two, the tension palpable. Lando’s expression shifts from hurt to confusion. He takes a step back, clearly stung by your words.

“Fine,” he says quietly, his voice pained. “If that’s how you want it.”

You nod, turning away from him and heading inside, each step feeling heavier than the last. Lando stands outside for a moment longer, staring at the closed door. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to your abrupt change in behavior, but he respects your wish for distance. With a heavy heart, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the echo of the door closing between you

You lean against the door, quickly sliding down and sitting on the floor as you cover your face with your hands, fighting back tears. 

Pushing him away is probably the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but you convince yourself it’s for the best.

Isaac spots you sitting on the floor, and quickly rushes towards you. Moving your hands away from your face, he notices the tears staining your cheeks and has an idea of how the conversation went with Lando. 

"You're still as stubborn as ever, aren't you?" he remarked rhetorically, but then he enveloped you in his arms, holding you close as you trembled with sobs. 

You pulled back slightly, sniffling as you tried to compose yourself. "I can't tell him," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rush of emotions.

Meanwhile, Lando trudged back to the villa, his mind heavy with thoughts and his heart weighed down by the encounter with you. When he arrived, Max was idly sitting around. 

“Hey, mate,” Max greeted but his expression turned serious as he observed Lando’s demeanour. “You okay?” 

Lando shrugged, sitting next to Max as he tried to brush off the weight of his emotions. “I saw her today.” 

He nodded, “how’d it go?” 

Lando frowned, furrowing his brows. “I don’t know, Max. That’s the thing. It’s like I saw a completely different person today. Someone I thought I knew, but now… she’s like a stranger.”

Max furrowed his brow, concerned. “What do you mean?”

Lando shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like she was pushing me away, Max. Acting cold and distant, like she didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Max nodded in understanding. “Well, mate, maybe she’s just having a rough day. I mean, she was at the hospital earlier.” 

His words caught Lando off guard. He blinked in surprise, his brows furrowing as he processed the information. “Wait, she was at the hospital?” he asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

Max nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I saw her leaving earlier today. Said it wasn’t serious, just a routine check up but she looked very tired, like she hadn’t slept properly in days.”

Lando’s concern deepened as he absorbed Max’s words. “Why didn’t she tell me?” he murmured, a mix of worry and frustration evident in his voice.

Max placed a comforting hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Maybe she just needs some space, mate. It’s not easy opening up about personal stuff, especially to someone you care about a lot.”

“You think she cares about me?” Lando asked, his tone almost a mumbling mess. 

Max scoffed, “see I knew you were an idiot but not to this extent that you don’t even see the obvious. Of course she cares about you, mate!” 

“Well I know that, it’s just I don’t wanna read into something that’s not there, you know?” 

Max squeezed Lando’s shoulder reassuringly. “Trust me, mate, it’s there. Sometimes, we just need a little nudge to see what’s right in front of us.”

Lando nodded slowly, his mind still swirling with doubts and questions. “I guess you’re right,” he conceded, a faint glimmer of hope starting to flicker within him.

Max grinned, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Just give her some time, and I’m sure things will sort themselves out.”

The cottage exudes a somber atmosphere, suffused with memories of those initial days when you sought refuge from your parents' house, just across town. After your diagnosis, living with your parents became unbearable, evoking memories of your tumultuous teenage years, always feeling scolded and misunderstood. With persuasion and determination, you relocated to the cottage, that has always acted as a second childhood home, with your brother, longing for respite from the tumult of your parents' home. Eventually, your parents themselves moved to the next town over, seeking their own fresh start, leaving you and your brother to navigate the challenges of your illness in your quiet abode.

Now, as you sit in the same kitchen where you once grappled with the harsh reality of your illness, the mood is eerily similar. A strange sense of déjà vu washes over you as the silence in the cottage seems to press down, a stark contrast to the vibrant conversations and laughter that once echoed within these walls during your childhood summers. Even more palpably, you recall the warmth of recent memories, the shared laughter with Lando when you had twisted your ankle, filling the space with a joy that now feels distant and elusive. The air is thick with unspoken words, the tension palpable as if one wrong move could shatter the fragile peace you carefully built. 

Isaac sits across from you, his presence comforting amidst the somber atmosphere. He watches you closely, his gaze filled with concern and understanding.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breaking the silence that hangs heavy between you.

You force a smile, but it feels hollow on your lips. “Just tired,” you reply, the words barely audible over the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

While Isaac may be aware of some of the pain you feel, he doesn’t know the full extent of what you’re enduring. You want to shield him from the worst, hiding just how much it hurts. The pain has been relentless, gnawing at you day and night, with only a brief sense of comfort for a few hours after taking your medication. Every movement feels like a struggle, every breath a reminder of the fragility of your condition.

Isaac studies your face, his eyes narrowing with concern. “You should call Mom and Dad,” he says softly, breaking the silence. “They need to know what’s going on. Your health is getting worse.”

You shake your head, the thought of burdening your parents with more bad news twisting your stomach into knots. “They’ve been hoping I’m getting better.”

Isaac sighs, reaching across the table to take your hand. “They’re gonna find out soon enough and they’ll want to be here for you, to support you. It’s better they hear it from you than from anyone else.”

You look down at your hands, Isaac’s warmth a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in your bones. “I just… I don’t want to shatter their hope again.”

Isaac squeezes your hand gently. “They love you. They’re not going to be disappointed in you. They’ll be worried, sure, but they need to know. You need all the support you can get.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. “Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll call them.”

Isaac gives you a reassuring smile, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Good. We’ll get through this together. You’re not alone.”

You manage a hint of a smile, looking at Isaac. “You know,” you say softly, “you’re such a good older brother especially for someone who’s younger than me.”

Isaac chuckles, a warm, comforting sound in the quiet room. “Age is just a number,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Besides, someone has to keep you in line.”

“Keep me in line? I think we’ve switched roles, remember how I used to keep you out of trouble?” You remark. 

You can feel the tension ease in the room as Isaac laughs at the memory before standing up to prepare dinner, allowing you to pick up your phone. 

The thought of hearing your parents’ voices fills you with a mixture of fear and relief. You know Isaac is right, but the conversation ahead feels like another mountain to climb. Taking a deep breath, you dial the familiar number, bracing yourself for what’s to come. The phone rings, and with each passing moment, you feel the weight of the upcoming conversation pressing down on you.

Finally, your mother answers, her voice warm and familiar. “Hello, sweetie. It’s been a while since you called. How are you?”

You hesitate for a moment, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hi, Mom. I… I need to talk to you about something.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear the concern in her voice. “What is it, honey? Is everything alright?”

Before you can respond, she quickly switches to a video call. Her face appears on the screen, eyes wide with worry. “Tell me what’s going on,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

Seeing her face makes it harder to hold back your emotions. You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “Mom, I’ve been trying to stay strong and not worry you and Dad, but… my health has been getting worse.”

Her expression shifts from concern to fear and then to a hint of anger masking hurt. “Worse? How worse, dear? Are you not taking care of yourself properly?”

You wince at her words, knowing they come from a place of worry. “I stayed a night at the hospital,” you continue. “They said if it doesn’t get better with the new medication, I’ll have to go back. The pain has been relentless. I can barely move without feeling it, and the medication only helps for a few hours.”

Your mother’s face pales, her eyes filling with tears. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We’ve been hoping you were getting better.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you admit, your voice cracking. “I wanted to protect you from the worst of it.”

Your mother shakes her head, wiping away a tear. “We’re your parents. We want to be there for you, no matter what. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I know,” you say, your own tears starting to fall. “It’s just so hard. Every day feels like a struggle, and I didn’t want to burden you.”

Isaac rounds the kitchen table and speaks up, his voice steady and supportive. “We’re all in this together, Mom. We need your support now more than ever.”

Your mother nods, her expression determined, though the hurt still lingers in her eyes. “We’ll be there for you, sweetheart. Every step of the way.”

Just then, she turns her head and calls out, “Honey, come here. It’s important.”

A moment later, your father appears on the screen, his face etched with concern. “What’s going on?”

Your mother explains quickly, her voice trembling. “She’s not doing well. She had to stay overnight at the hospital, and she might have to go back soon. We need to be there for her.”

Your father’s expression hardens with resolve. “We’ll come over soon. Don’t worry, just be careful.”

Hearing his firm, supportive words, you feel a sense of relief and hope. “I will, thank you, Dad. I love you both.”

“We love you too,” he replies, his voice full of emotion. “We’re here for you, no matter what.”

After exchanging goodbyes and promising to see each other soon, you hang up the phone, feeling a slight sense of relief wash over you. Though it's only temporary, the weight on your shoulders lifts ever so slightly.

As Isaac reveals dinner, the aroma of his culinary creation fills the air, tempting your senses with its savory goodness. But as you take a closer look at your own plate, disappointment washes over you. The food in front of you is bland and uninspiring, reminiscent of the tasteless hospital meals you’ve grown accustomed to.

You poke at your food with little enthusiasm, knowing that the increased dosage of medication has left your taste buds dulled and unresponsive. “I can’t eat this,” you mutter, pushing the plate away with a sigh.

Isaac looks up from his own meal, concern creasing his eyebrow. “Come on, you need to eat something,” he urges, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s important for your recovery.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up inside you. “But it tastes like nothing,” you protest, the monotony of the hospital diet weighing heavily on your spirit.

Isaac nods sympathetically, understanding your struggle. “I know it’s tough,” he says softly. “But remember what the doctor said about avoiding spice. It’s all part of the plan to help you get better.”

Reluctantly, you take a small bite, forcing yourself to chew and swallow despite the lack of flavor. The effort feels futile, but you know Isaac is right. You need to keep up your strength, even if it means enduring tasteless meals for the time being.

As you pick at your food, Isaac’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone lighthearted but determined. “Hey, once you’re feeling better, we’ll have a hot chicken wing contest,” he suggests, a playful twinkle in his eye. “Just like old times. And I promise, I’ll make them so spicy, you won’t be able to taste anything for a week.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. The idea of a hot chicken wing contest brings back memories of happier times, when your biggest worry was who would win the next round.

“Deal,” you agree, the idea of better days ahead spurring you on. But deep down, you know the truth that you can’t bring yourself to voice aloud in front of him again. You’re not getting better, no matter how much you wish you could.

The next day, you wake up with a sense of urgency gnawing at your insides, an inexplicable feeling pulling you towards the lighthouse. It’s as if an invisible force is guiding you, compelling you to make this journey one last time.

As you slip out of bed and prepare to leave the house, a mixture of determination and trepidation fills your heart. You know deep down that this might be the last opportunity you have to climb those stairs, to feel the wind on your face as you stand at the top and gaze out at the vast expanse of the ocean.

Isaac notices your movements and steps forward, concern etched into his features.

“Hey, where are you off to?” he asks, his voice gentle yet probing.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should share your intentions. But then, you meet his gaze and find solace in his familiar eyes.

“I’m going to the lighthouse,” you reply, your voice steady despite the weight of your words. “I just… need some time alone.”

Isaac’s expression softens, understanding dawning in his eyes. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder gently, offering silent support.

“Take all the time you need,” he says softly. “And if you need anything, call me.”

With a grateful nod, you offer him a small smile before turning to leave, the weight of your decision heavy on your heart.

You make your way up the stairs to the lighthouse, each step feeling heavier than the last. The climb feels like an uphill battle, and you find yourself pausing every few steps to catch your breath.

Your chest heaves with the effort, and a wave of dizziness washes over you as you reach the halfway point. You lean against the railing, willing yourself to continue despite the fatigue that threatens to overwhelm you.

With each step, the distance between you and the top of the lighthouse seems to stretch on forever. Your muscles ache with exertion, and your breath comes in ragged gasps.

But you refuse to give up. You grit your teeth and push through the pain, focusing all your energy on reaching the summit. With each step, you draw closer to your goal, fueled by the determination to see the view from the top one last time.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you reach the top of the lighthouse, gasping for air, only to find Lando already there, leaning against the railing and gazing out at the horizon. He turns as he hears your footsteps and ragged breaths, surprise flickering across his face. 

He takes a step back, clearly intending to give you some space. “I’ll go down,” he mutters awkwardly, gesturing towards the stairs. “This place is your spot.”

But before he can move away, you reach out and grab his hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No,” you say firmly, your voice stronger than you feel. “Stay.”

He hesitates for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but then he nods and settles back against the railing, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you lean against the railing beside him. Despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily on you, being close to him brings a sense of comfort that you can’t quite explain.

“Thanks,” you murmur, grateful for his presence beside you.

He offers you a small, tentative smile in return, his hand tightening around yours in a silent gesture of support.

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you turn to Lando, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension between you two like a heavy blanket.

"Listen, I owe you an apology," you begin, your voice soft but sincere. "I've been acting... differently lately, and I want you to know that it's not because of anything you did. That day, I was at the hospital for a routine checkup, and it just tired me out more than I expected. I’m sorry about ditching our plans."

You technically didn’t lie, but also didn’t tell him the whole truth either. You pause, searching his face for any sign of understanding or acceptance. His expression softens, and you feel a flicker of relief.

"I shouldn't have been so rude to you," you continue, your tone earnest. "I appreciate your patience, and I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome."

Lando nods, his eyes reflecting empathy. "It's okay," he says gently, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I understand. And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable by showing up here."

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "No, you don't need to apologize. I'm glad you're here."

With that, the tension between you starts to dissolve, replaced by a sense of mutual understanding and acceptance as you stand side by side, watching the waves crash against the shore below.

Taking a moment to admire the breathtaking view from the top of the lighthouse, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. But as the adrenaline of the climb begins to wear off, your legs start to tremble beneath you, threatening to give out at any moment.

Recognizing the warning signs of exhaustion, you carefully lower yourself to the ground, your muscles protesting with each movement. Sitting down with a heavy sigh of relief, you lean back against the cool stone wall of the lighthouse, grateful for the brief respite from the physical strain.

Lando joined you as well, sitting side by side on the floor of the lighthouse. You continue to hold onto his hand, your fingers tracing patterns absentmindedly. However, despite your attempt to clear the air, he still seems hesitant, his brows furrowed with confusion. 

Finally, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Lando breaks the silence. “Hey, can I ask you something?” he begins, his voice tentative. 

You turn to him, meeting his gaze with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. “Of course,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light despite the weight of the conversation.

He hesitates for a moment before plunging ahead. “Did something happen the night we went for burgers?” he asks, his words carefully measured. “I mean, you seemed off after… and I’ve been wondering if I did something wrong.”

Realization dawns on you that he’s talking about the almost kiss. The memory of that night floods back, the charged moment in his car when he had pulled back. You had admired his restraint, his desire to do things right, but it also made your heart ache with longing.

Your heart sinks at his words, the guilt weighing heavy on your chest. “No, Lando,” you assure him, squeezing his hand gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

You glance at him, seeing the earnest concern in his eyes. How you wish you had the courage to pull him in by his collar and kiss him then, to let him know just how much he meant to you despite everything. 

But he doesn’t seem convinced, his gaze searching yours for any sign of dishonesty. “Don’t lie,” he says softly, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.

You hesitate, grappling with the weight of your own emotions and the truth you’re desperate to conceal. Part of you wants to tell him how much his presence means to you, how his laughter lights up even the darkest corners of your world. But fear holds you back, whispering cruel reminders of the inevitability of heartbreak both of you will experience. 

Instead of answering his question, you take a deep breath and change the subject. “So, when are you leaving?” you ask, trying to divert his attention away from your own turmoil.

He furrows his brow, clearly surprised by the sudden shift in conversation but decides not to push for an answer. “Tomorrow,” he replies, a hint of sadness in his voice.

You offer him a small smile, “well, I hope you had a good time despite my lackluster tour guide skills,” you quip, attempting to lighten the mood.

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Meeting you was my favorite part,” he admits, his gaze unwavering as he meets your eyes. “Spending time with you, even if it wasn’t every day, made this trip unforgettable.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks at his admission, the warmth of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. There’s a playful glint in his eyes that ignites a natural spark of flirtation between you. 

In the quiet solitude of the lighthouse, you find yourself caught up in the moment with Lando, the days missed due to your own fear melting away with each shared smile and genuine laugh. Despite the lingering weight of your illness and the uncertainty that shadows your future, you're finally able to let go of the constant worry and embrace the present.

You realize that constantly dwelling on the unknown, on whether you'll have more time together or not, only serves to rob you of the joy of the moment. So instead, you allow yourself to be fully present with Lando, savoring each precious second together.

Yet, beneath the surface of your newfound acceptance, there still lingers a trace of fear. You know that distancing yourself from Lando won't protect either of you from the inevitable pain that lies ahead. His genuine smile, the way his eyes light up when he's with you, speaks volumes, and you can't deny the pull you feel toward him.

Despite the uncertainty of what the future holds, you're willing to take the risk, to open your heart to the possibility of love, even if it means facing the inevitable heartache that may follow. Because in the end, the fleeting moments of happiness you share with Lando are worth every ounce of pain.

Lando straightens up, his movements fluid and confident, as he leans in closer, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Hey, do you mind giving me your number and surname?" he asks casually, but there's a hint of mischief in his tone.

You raise an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "What are you going to do with that information?" you inquire, your curiosity piqued.

His smile widens, a charming grin that could melt anyone's heart. "Well, first so we can still stay in touch even if I’m on the other side of the world, and second so I can send you a pass for one of my races," he replies smoothly, his voice laced with playful charm.

You can't help but chuckle at his response, shaking your head in amusement. "And why would I come to your race?" you tease, enjoying the banter between you.

Lando's gaze softens, a warmth in his eyes that catches you off guard. "I think you might be my lucky charm," he admits, his tone sincere.

You pause, feeling a flutter of excitement mixed with uncertainty. "You believe in lucky charms?" you ask, a hint of skepticism in your voice.

He nods, his smile unwavering. "I didn't," he confesses, "but now it seems like a good time to start believing. Why are you asking so many questions?" he adds playfully, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You can't help but smile at his lighthearted demeanor, appreciating the way he effortlessly lightens the mood. "You don't want me as a lucky charm," you reply, a touch of self-doubt creeping into your voice.

Lando's expression softens, his gaze filled with genuine warmth. "Why not?" he counters, his tone gentle yet determined.

"It won't last long," you murmur, a pang of sadness tugging at your heart as you glance away.

He reaches out, gently tilting your chin to meet his gaze. "It'll last as long as you're by my side," he insists, his voice sincere and unwavering. "That is up to you, don't you think so?"

His words catch you off guard, stirring something deep within you. "Now who's asking lots of questions?" you tease, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Still you," he replies with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling with affection.

You shake your head, feeling a surge of warmth at his playful banter. "You're something else, Lando."

"So are you," he replies, his smile soft and genuine. "In the best way possible."

You oblige Lando’s request, typing your phone number into his phone and saving your full name in his contacts. It’s a small gesture, but one that feels significant in the moment, despite the fact that you know you’ll never take him up on the offer for a pass to his race.

As the sun casts its golden glow across the rugged coastline, you and Lando sit side by side, taking in the breathtaking view from the top of the lighthouse. The air is filled with the sounds of seagulls circling overhead and the distant rumble of waves crashing against the shore below.

Lando’s arm around your shoulders feels like a lifeline, grounding you in the present moment amidst the tumult of your thoughts and emotions. You find solace in his presence, a sense of calm washing over you as you soak in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

The playful banter and teasing remarks give way to a comfortable silence, allowing you both to simply be in each other’s company without the need for words. It’s a moment of quiet intimacy, where the weight of the world fades away and all that matters is the connection between you and Lando.

You lean into his embrace, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing and the reassuring strength of his arm around you. In this moment, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the warmth of Lando’s presence, you feel a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that whatever the future may hold, you’re grateful for this moment of shared serenity.

As you both prepare to descend the stairs, Lando pauses, noticing your reluctance to leave the view behind. "Shouldn't I be the one lingering back to admire the horizon? After all, I'm the one leaving, not you," he quips with a playful smirk.

You chuckle at his remark, shaking your head in amusement. "Come on, Lando, don't act like you're the only one who appreciates a good view," you tease back, nudging him lightly.

He grins, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before turning back to the scenery. "Fair point," he concedes, his tone light and playful. “I’ll wait for you downstairs then.” 

You nod, watching him make his way down the stairs. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair, and you take a deep breath, committing the scene to memory.

With a sense of purpose, you scan the area, searching for the perfect spot to leave your message. Your eyes alight on a small alcove tucked away in a corner, sheltered from the wind and hidden from plain sight. It’s a secluded nook, easily overlooked by passersby, but will be found if it’s searched for. 

Slipping something into the alcove, you ensure it’s nestled securely among the shadows, a subtle gesture meant for only the most observant of visitors. With a satisfied nod, you turn to follow Lando down the stairs. 

—

The following day is a whirlwind of activity as your parents arrive at the cottage. They come bearing an array of supplies and comforts, ready to pamper you with their love and attention.

"Sweetheart, we brought some of your favorite homemade meals," your mom chirps, bustling into the kitchen with bags of groceries in tow.

Your dad follows closely behind, a stack of freshly laundered blankets in his arms. "And I made sure to pack extra blankets in case you get chilly," he adds with a warm smile.

Isaac turns to your mother, his expression gentle yet concerned. “Just a heads up, she can’t have any spicy food because of the doctor’s orders,” he explains, hoping to avoid any culinary mishaps.

“Isaac, don’t ruin it,” you mutter, holding the tupperware filled with your favourite dishes. 

Your dad, overhearing the conversation, interjects with a reassuring pat on Isaac’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. Your mother has spent many hours in the kitchen cooking up a storm for our girl here,” he says with a fond smile. “A little taste of home can work wonders for the soul.”

You can't help but smile at their fussing, feeling a mixture of gratitude and guilt at their doting gestures. "How long are you planning to stay?" you inquire, trying to gauge the extent of their visit.

"Until you're better, of course," your mom replies without hesitation, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Throughout the day, your parents dote on you, attending to your every need with unwavering devotion. They fluff pillows, brew tea, and fuss over you as if you were a child again, and despite the sadness that tugs at your heart, you find solace in their presence.

As evening falls and the cottage is filled with the aroma of home-cooked meals, you can't help but feel a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. These moments of familial closeness are precious, and you savor each one, knowing deep down that they may be fleeting.

Amidst the cozy atmosphere that had filled your cottage, a sudden realization dawns on you. Today is the day Lando is leaving, and with the flurry of activity happening throughout the day, you had almost forgotten. 

Abandoning your dinner mid-bite, you quickly put on a pair of shoes, your heart pounding with urgency. As you rush towards the door, your parents pause in their fussing, exchanging puzzled glances as they notice your abrupt departure.

“Where are you going?” your mom asks, concern etched in her voice.

You pause in the doorway, a sense of determination driving you forward. “I have to see Lando,” you reply, your words rushed and breathless.

As you disappear out the door, your parents turn to your brother, confusion evident in their expressions. “Who’s Lando?” your dad asks, his brow furrowed in bewilderment.

Isaac sighs, shaking his head as he meets their gaze. “He’s the one she’s in love with,” he explains softly, a hint of sadness in his voice. “But I’m not sure if she’s ready to accept it yet.” 

As you reach the villa, your breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale becoming a struggle. Pain pulses through your chest with every heartbeat, but you refuse to let it slow you down. Adrenaline surges through your veins, driving you forward with an urgency born of raw emotion.

Your eyes scan the scene before you, taking in the sight of Max hurriedly loading the car with his and Lando’s bags. The trunk is nearly full, a testament to the impending departure that looms over you like a storm cloud. You feel a knot form in your stomach, a sense of panic seizing hold of you as you realize that time is slipping away.

Then, amidst the chaos, you spot Lando emerging from the villa, his expression one of surprise and concern as he catches sight of you. His brow furrows in confusion, his eyes searching yours for an explanation.

Without hesitation, you push yourself forward, your feet carrying you towards him with a desperate urgency. With trembling hands, you reach out to him, your fingers brushing against his arm before wrapping around him in a tight embrace. His warmth envelops you, a comforting anchor amidst the storm raging within you. For a fleeting moment, the pain in your chest eases, replaced by a sense of peace that only he can provide.

For a long moment, you simply hold onto each other, the world around you fading into insignificance as you find solace in each other’s arms. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy between you, the truth lingering on the tip of your tongue, waiting to be unleashed.

As you finally pull away, a silent understanding passes between you, a shared acknowledgment of the depth of your connection. Lando’s gaze searches yours, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and affection, silently asking if you’re okay.

You manage a faint smile, though it feels fragile on your lips. “I just had to see you before you left,” you confess softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His expression softens, a warmth in his eyes that speaks volumes. “I’m glad you came,” he replies, his voice gentle and reassuring.

You linger for a moment longer, drinking in the sight of him, committing every detail to memory. Then, with a heavy heart, you reluctantly release him, knowing that time is running short.

As Lando returns to help Max with the bags, you watch him go, a sense of longing tugging at your heart. 

Once everything was packed up, Lando and Max walked towards you, their footsteps echoing on the gravel driveway. Max reaches you first, his face lit with a warm smile. Without hesitation, he pulls you into a brief, friendly hug. 

“Thanks for the good company,” Max says, his voice full of genuine gratitude. “And for keeping Lando’s mood up throughout this trip. You’ve been a real lifesaver.” He chuckles, the sound infectious, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“Anytime,” you reply, your smile widening. “It’s been fun having you both around.”

Max steps back, giving Lando space to step forward. Lando’s eyes meet yours, and there’s a depth of emotion there that makes your heart skip a beat. He takes your hands in his, holding them gently as if afraid you might disappear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Lando says softly, his tone filled with a mixture of hope and determination. “Just a ‘see you later,’ alright?”

You nod, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “See you later,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

Lando pulls you into a tight embrace this time, his arms wrapping around you protectively. You breathe in his familiar scent, the comfort of his presence grounding you in the moment.

He pulls back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he searches your face. “Don’t think I forgot about giving you a pass,” he says with a small, teasing smile. “I’ll be waiting for you at the race.”

You smile through the tears that threaten to spill over. “We’ll see.” 

Max claps Lando on the back, breaking the emotional moment. “Come on, mate, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

With one last look, Lando releases you and heads towards the car. You watch them drive away, a mix of sadness and hope swirling within you. The ache in your chest grows, but you try to push it aside, focusing on ways to fulfill the promise of seeing him again.

As you start walking back home, the exertion from earlier catches up to you. Your breath becomes labored, each step feeling heavier than the last. A sharp pain radiates through your chest, and you find yourself struggling to stay upright. Determined to make it back to the cottage, you push on, but every movement is a reminder of your body’s limitations.

By the time you reach the door, you’re barely holding on. You collapse onto the porch steps, gasping for breath, the world around you blurring as you fight to stay conscious. Moments later, the door swings open, and Isaac is there, his face pale with worry.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, rushing to your side. His voice sounds distant, echoing in your ears.

You try to speak, but the words get caught in your throat. Instead, you manage a weak nod, though it’s clear you’re far from okay.

Isaac doesn’t waste another second. He scoops you up in his arms, carrying you inside. “Mom! Dad!” he calls out, his voice frantic. “Something’s wrong. We need to get her to the hospital.”

Your parents appear almost instantly, their faces a mixture of fear and determination. Your dad grabs the car keys while your mom hurries to gather your things, her hands shaking.

In the car, you drift in and out of consciousness, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you. Your mom holds your hand tightly, whispering soothing words that barely register. Isaac drives with a grim focus, the worry in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

At the hospital, the staff quickly takes over, whisking you away on a stretcher. Your family is left in the waiting room, their anxious faces a blur as you’re rushed through the halls.

As the doctors and nurses work to stabilize you, you catch fleeting thoughts of Lando, Max, and the brief, bright moments you shared. The reality of your condition settles in, and you realize just how fragile your hope had been.

The doctors stabilize you for now, but you wake to the sound of your mother's soft cries in the room. Her face is buried in your father's shoulder, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Your father is holding her close, his eyes red and puffy, a grim expression etched on his face. Isaac stands nearby, his jaw clenched, trying to hold himself together.

You blink, the fluorescent lights above casting a harsh glow on the stark white walls. A doctor stands at the foot of your bed, looking somber. You catch bits and pieces of his words, the clinical detachment in his voice contrasting sharply with the raw emotion in the room.

"...best if she doesn’t return home... too weak... last days in the hospital..."

The full weight of the words crashes over you, and a sense of helplessness fills your heart. You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and the words come out as a rasp. "Mom? Dad?"

Your mother's head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and she rushes to your side, taking your hand in hers. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "We're here. We're right here."

Your father moves closer, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "We won't leave your side," he promises, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes.

Isaac approaches the bed, his usual bravado stripped away. "Hey," he says softly, trying to muster a smile. "We’re all here for you."

You swallow hard, trying to process the reality of the situation. "How long?" you manage to ask, your voice barely a whisper.

The doctor steps forward, his expression compassionate. "It’s hard to say for certain," he admits gently. "But we’ll do everything we can to keep you comfortable."

You nod, a mixture of fear and resignation settling over you. Your mother's sobs have quieted, but the sorrow in her eyes is unmistakable. "I’m so sorry," you whisper, feeling a pang of guilt for putting them through this.

"No, don’t apologize," your father says firmly, squeezing your shoulder. "This isn’t your fault. We’re just grateful to be here with you."

Your family’s presence brings a small measure of comfort, but the reality of your condition is a heavy burden. You look around at their faces, trying to memorize every detail, every expression. The room feels both claustrophobic and infinite, the moments stretching out like a fragile thread.

As the night wears on, you find solace in their presence. Your mother hums softly, stroking your hair, while your father reads to you from a book you loved as a child. Isaac sits by the window, watching the night sky, his expression pensive.

You know that the days ahead will be difficult, but for now, you take comfort in the love that surrounds you. The hospital room, with its sterile walls and beeping machines, becomes a sanctuary of sorts, a place where you can hold on to the precious moments with your family, no matter how fleeting they may be.

—

The sterile scent of the hospital room is overwhelming, the beeping of the machines a constant reminder of the deteriorating state of your health. The wires and tubes attached to your body are a constant presence, their weight both physical and symbolic. The medication dulls the pain, but it also leaves you in a fog, half-aware of the world around you.

Isaac sits by your bedside, his expression a mix of forced cheerfulness and hidden sorrow. He tries to make you laugh, telling stories and cracking jokes, but there’s an underlying tension in his voice.

You take a shaky breath and glance at Isaac. “So, this is it, huh?” you say with a dry laugh, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the sadness in your voice.

He looks at you, the forced cheerfulness slipping from his face. “Still laughing?” he asks, his voice quivering.

“If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want that to be the last expression you remember me by.”

Isaac’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Remember when you said that you weren’t able to be a proper older sister to me ever since you got diagnosed?” he asks softly. “That’s wrong. You still were because you powered through every moment of pain on your own. Even now, you’re as selfless as ever.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you swallow hard. “I got a taste of how it feels to be selfish recently,” you confess, your voice trembling. “To see what you want right there in front of you, waiting for you to take it, but I almost got too attached to it that fate had to rip it away from me again.”

“Are you talking about Lando?” Isaac asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, the memories of your brief time with Lando flooding back, a bittersweet ache in your chest. “Life is so cruel, so fickle,” you say, your voice barely audible. “When I finally accepted my fate, it flipped and gave me a chance to be happy, to fall in love, to live like I’ve never done before. When I experienced it all, it just made me greedy. I wanted to keep living like that. But I won’t be able to because in a moment, it’s taken away again.”

Isaac squeezes your hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “You deserved every moment of happiness,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “And you brought happiness to those around you, too. Remember that.”

The days pass in a blur of medical checks, whispered conversations, and the quiet hum of machines. Your parents come and go, their faces lined with worry but always offering words of comfort and love.

Then comes Sunday, one that’s special for you because it’s also race day. 

The hospital room is dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of the television screen mounted on the wall. The muted hum of machines and the occasional beep provide a constant backdrop to your labored breathing. Your family surrounds you, their presence a source of comfort even as your strength wanes. The room is filled with an unspoken tension, a fragile hope that somehow, you might find the strength to hold on a little longer.

Earlier in the day, you had pleaded with the nurses to let you watch the race. “Please,” you whispered, your voice weak but determined. “I just want to see him race one last time.”

The nurses had exchanged glances, their expressions softening. “Alright,” one of them had said gently. “We’ll make sure you can watch it.”

Now, the vibrant colors of the Formula 1 race contrast sharply with the sterile white of the hospital room. Lando’s car, resplendent in its sleek orange design, zips around the track with an elegance and speed that seems almost otherworldly. The commentator’s voice crackles with excitement as they describe the race in vivid detail.

“And Lando Norris takes the lead! He’s showing incredible skill out there today, really pushing the limits of his car and his own abilities. The crowd is going wild!”

You try to focus on the race, on the laps ticking by, the thrill of each turn, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult. Your vision blurs, the lines between the real and the surreal beginning to merge. Every breath is a struggle, each one more labored than the last.

Your mother sits by your side, her hand gently stroking your hair, her eyes red-rimmed but determined to stay strong. Your father stands at the foot of the bed, his face etched with lines of worry and sorrow. Isaac holds your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, his eyes never leaving your face.

You gather your remaining strength, turning your head slightly to look at Isaac. “Can you give him a message for me?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, each word a struggle.

Isaac leans closer, his face etched with concern and determination. “What do you want to say?” he asks gently, his eyes locked onto yours, ready to carry your words to Lando.

You pause, the weight of the moment settling over you. With great effort, you manage to form the words that have been in your heart. “Tell him… tell him that he made me believe in living life again. That he gave me something beautiful in my last days. And… and that I’ll always be cheering for him, even if I’m not there.”

Isaac’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, and he nods, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “I will. I promise.”

On the television, Lando navigates the sharp turns of the track with precision and grace. The roar of the engines and the thrill of the race create a stark contrast to the quiet, somber atmosphere of your room. The commentator’s voice booms with excitement.

“Norris is extending his lead! This could be his race if he keeps up this pace. The team must be thrilled with his performance!”

On the Formula 1 track, the atmosphere is electric. Lando sits in his car, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can feel every vibration of the engine, every nuance of the track. The pit crew buzzes with activity, their movements synchronized and efficient. Over the radio, his engineer’s voice provides updates and encouragement.

“You’re doing great, Lando. Keep this up and the win is yours.”

Lando nods inside his helmet, his focus razor-sharp. The crowd’s cheers blend into a singular wave of energy that propels him forward. He pushes the car to its limits, every fiber of his being dedicated to the race.

Back in the hospital, your breathing becomes more labored, and your family’s concern deepens. Your mother’s voice breaks as she hums softly, a lullaby from your childhood. Isaac squeezes your hand, his own tears finally breaking free.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words a final, heartfelt goodbye.

“We love you too,” Isaac responds, his voice choked with emotion. “More than anything.”

On the track, Lando crosses the finish line, the checkered flag waving triumphantly. The crowd erupts into a frenzy of cheers and applause. The commentator’s voice is almost drowned out by the noise.

“Lando Norris wins the race! What an incredible performance!”

In the paddock, Lando is overwhelmed with joy, the culmination of his efforts and dedication. He pulls off his helmet, his face breaking into a wide smile as he celebrates with his team. He can’t wait to share the victory, to tell you about the race, to see the look of pride in your eyes.

You watch from the hospital room, as Lando stands on the podium, lifting the trophy high, a sense of accomplishment filling him. A smile graces your lips, noticing the pure joy on his face. Then, you close your eyes, the vision of Lando’s smile still fresh in your mind. 

Time stands still. As the world fades around you, your family holds you close, their whispered goodbyes blending into a chorus of love and sorrow. The light in your eyes dims, and with one last, labored breath, you slip away into a place beyond suffering.

As soon as the machine flatlines, the piercing sound of the monitor cuts through the room, signaling the end. Your mother's cries shatter the silence, raw and heart-wrenching. She grips your hand with desperate strength, her knuckles turning white, as if her hold on you could somehow bring you back. 

"No, no, please!" she sobs, her voice cracking with each word. Tears stream down her face, her body trembling with the force of her grief. She shakes you gently at first, then more insistently, refusing to accept the finality of it. "Wake up, please wake up!"

Your father stands by her side, his own face etched with anguish. He places a hand on her shoulder, trying to offer support, but his own tears betray his stoic exterior. Isaac, standing a little apart, is frozen in shock, his eyes wide and uncomprehending as he watches the scene unfold. 

The room is filled with the oppressive weight of sorrow, the air heavy with the collective grief of your family. The nurses, having done all they could, step back to give your family space, their own expressions somber and respectful. 

Your mother’s cries grow louder, a desperate plea to a reality that feels too cruel to be true. She holds your hand to her cheek, her tears wetting your skin as she rocks back and forth. "Please, don’t leave us," she whispers, her voice breaking. "We need you."

The doctor steps forward, his face grave, and gently places a hand on your mother’s arm. "I’m so sorry for your loss," he says quietly, his words sincere but powerless against the tidal wave of their grief.

The only reality that matters is the unbearable pain of losing you, and the impossible task of trying to say goodbye.

On the top step of the podium, Lando basks in the glow of victory, the thrill of the race still pulsing through him. But amidst the celebration, a nagging feeling tugs at him, a sense that something is missing. A bittersweet undercurrent flows through his triumph.

Unbeknownst to him, a message of love and gratitude is on its way, bridging the distance between the track and the hospital room, connecting two hearts in a moment that transcends time and space.

Suddenly, your phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the flatline beeping on the monitor. Each ring echoes through the room like a mournful dirge. Isaac’s hand hovers over the device, his heart pounding in his chest as he hesitates to answer. But when the call comes again, he knows there’s no escaping the inevitable.

With trembling fingers, he accepts the call, the voice on the other end sending a shiver down his spine. “Were you watching the race? I told you that you are my lucky charm.”

Isaac’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes welling with tears at the bitter irony of Lando’s words. He struggles to find the strength to respond, his voice choked with emotion. “Lando… it’s Isaac.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a tremor of uncertainty in Lando’s voice. “Isaac? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Isaac’s heart clenches at the desperation in Lando’s voice, his own grief threatening to consume him. “She’s gone, Lando,” he manages to choke out, his voice breaking with sorrow. “My sister… she’s gone.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a painful reminder of the cruel twist of fate that has robbed them of their happiness. Lando’s breath hitches, his voice barely a whisper as he responds. “No… no, that can’t be true. Tell me you’re lying, tell me this is some sick joke please”

Isaac’s heart aches as he hears the disbelief and anguish in Lando’s voice. He wishes he could erase the truth, to shield Lando from the devastating reality they now face. But there’s no escaping it, no denying the painful truth that hangs between them like a heavy shroud.

“I wish I could, Lando,” Isaac murmurs, his own voice choked with sorrow. “I wish this was just a sick joke, but… but she’s really gone.”

There’s a long, agonizing pause, broken only by the sound of Lando’s ragged breathing on the other end of the line. Isaac can imagine the turmoil raging within him, the crushing weight of grief threatening to overwhelm him entirely. He relays the message that you had for him, only hearing Lando breathing heavily in response. 

As Lando stands there, clutching the phone that brought him devastating news, the world around him seems to blur into a haze of incomprehensible grief. The congratulations from his fellow drivers fall on deaf ears, their voices distant and muffled as if coming from a far-off place. Daniel, Carlos, George—all of them offer their heartfelt congratulations, their smiles genuine, but Lando can't bring himself to respond. 

He feels disconnected, as if he's merely a spectator watching his own life unfold from a distance. The cameras flash around him, capturing the jubilant celebrations of victory, but Lando feels nothing but a hollow emptiness gnawing at his soul.

Unable to bear the facade any longer, Lando excuses himself from the crowd, retreating to the sanctuary of his driver's room. Once alone, the weight of his grief crashes over him like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him in its depths.

With a gut-wrenching scream, Lando releases the pent-up anguish that has been building inside him since the moment he received that fateful call. He falls to his knees, his body racked with sobs as he grapples with the cruel twist of fate that has torn his world apart.

In that moment of agonizing despair, Lando feels utterly alone, lost in a sea of grief with no shore in sight. The victory he had worked so hard for feels meaningless now, a hollow triumph overshadowed by the devastating loss of someone he held dear.

As the echoes of his cries fade into the silence of the empty room, Lando finds himself consumed by a profound sense of despair. In the midst of his greatest triumph, he is confronted with the harsh reality of mortality, and it is a bitter pill to swallow.

Alone in his hotel room, Lando’s victory feels hollow amidst the empty silence that surrounds him. Instead of celebrating with the fanfare of music, alcohol, and camaraderie that would be expected after such a result, he finds himself throwing his belongings haphazardly into his suitcase, his movements mechanical and devoid of purpose. 

The room feels suffocating, the weight of grief pressing down on him like a physical force. With a sense of urgency, Lando hastily gathers his things, his hands trembling as he zips up his suitcase. 

As he exits the hotel, he fires off a text to his manager, explaining the situation briefly, typing through his clouded vision full of more unshed tears. 

Lando chooses not to drive, the mere thought of operating a vehicle feeling like an insurmountable task. Instead, he hails a taxi, his mind consumed by thoughts of you and the gaping void left in your absence.

The taxi driver casts him a curious glance as he climbs into the backseat, his tear-streaked face a stark contrast to the typical fare. But Lando pays no mind to the stares, his thoughts consumed by the overwhelming grief that threatens to consume him.

Throughout the journey to the airport, Lando’s tears continue to flow unabated, his heart weighed down by the magnitude of his loss. He feels adrift, lost in a sea of pain and sorrow, unsure of how to navigate the tumultuous waters of his emotions.

Lando finds himself grappling with conflicting emotions as he boards the plane back to the town filled with memories of you. Despite the overwhelming pain of revisiting every corner suffused with reminders of your presence, he knows deep down that he cannot stay away.

The thought of pretending that everything is fine when it's not feels like a betrayal of the love you shared, a denial of the profound impact you had on his life. And so, with a heavy heart and a mind clouded by grief, Lando embarks on the journey back to the place where his heart still lingers, knowing that he must confront the pain head-on in order to find a semblance of peace.

Lando’s return to town is marked by exhaustion and dishevelment, the toll of a sleepless night evident in the shadows beneath his eyes and the weariness etched into his features. He barely manages to greet Isaac before retreating to the solitude of the lighthouse, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of its quiet sanctuary.

As Lando stands at the top of the lighthouse, his gaze fixed on the horizon, he can't shake the feeling of déjà vu that washes over him. The flickering beam of the lighthouse casts eerie shadows against the walls, the only sound the mournful cry of seagulls in the distance. It's as if he's been transported back in time, to a moment frozen in history, when tragedy and loss hung heavy in the air.

Tears stream down his cheeks, his sobs echoing in the empty space around him as he allows himself to surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotion.

In the stillness of the lighthouse, Lando is consumed by a sense of profound loss, his heart aching with the absence of the one he longs for. He sits there for hours, his thoughts consumed by memories of you, his soul yearning for the warmth of your presence.

In the dim light, Lando recalls the story you once shared with him, of the tragic love that had unfolded within these very walls decades ago. A woman, waiting faithfully for her lover's return, had spent countless nights standing vigil at the top of the lighthouse, her heart filled with hope and longing. But as the years passed and her lover failed to return, her hope turned to despair, her love transformed into bitter regret.

Now, as Lando stands in the same spot, he can't help but draw parallels between that long-ago tragedy and his own situation. Like the woman of the story, he finds himself clinging to a glimmer of hope, praying for a miracle that may never come. In his heart, he still holds onto the belief that you'll come back to him, that the news of your loss is just a bad dream from which he'll soon awaken.

With each passing moment, however, the harsh reality of your absence becomes more pronounced, the weight of grief bearing down on him like a leaden cloak. Yet, despite the pain that threatens to consume him, Lando refuses to give up hope. He remains steadfast in his vigil, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of your return, his heart yearning for the moment when he'll finally see you again.

His gaze sweeps over every corner of the lighthouse, wanting to etch every detail into his memory. The soft glow of the fading sunlight filters through the windows, casting a warm golden hue over the space. He takes a deep breath, trying to imprint the scent of saltwater and sea breeze into his mind.

As he moves around, his eyes fall upon a small alcove tucked away in a corner, hidden from plain sight. Something tugs at his instincts, urging him to investigate further. With cautious curiosity, he steps closer, his heart pounding in anticipation.

Reaching into the alcove, his fingers brush against something smooth and delicate. He pulls out a folded piece of paper, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes what it is. With trembling hands, he unfolds the note, his eyes scanning the words written in your handwriting.

Lando, I hope this note finds its way to you. It's strange how emotions can turn even the fearless into cowards. I couldn't bring myself to give you this letter in person, so I'm leaving it here, hoping it reaches you. I'm guessing you already know the truth, and that I'm no longer here by your side.

As he reads those words, he can hear your voice in his mind. The acknowledgment that you couldn't face him in person fills him with a mix of sadness and understanding. He feels a pang of guilt, wondering if there was something he could have done differently to make you feel more comfortable sharing your feelings with him. 

I don’t think a mere ‘I’m sorry’ is enough for keeping the truth from you. The reason why I did is because every moment with you felt like a dream, and in my dreams, my illness never existed. I’ve always cursed fate for the shitty hand it dealt me but I never would’ve gotten a chance to live something close to the perfect life if it wasn’t for fate. 

A melancholic smile tugs at his lips as he reflects on the sentiment expressed in your words. Each moment spent with you had indeed felt like a dream, a precious respite from the relentless demands of the racing world.

Before you came to town, I felt like a living corpse, waiting for my illness to take me under, but when I met you, it gave me a purpose to look forward to the next day. Being your tour guide, although I think it was because you just wanted to spend time with me, was probably the most I’ve lived ever since I was diagnosed. While I used your presence as an excuse to live like I used to, I didn’t ever imagine falling in love with anyone, much less a British racing driver. 

A wave of emotions wash over him as he reads your heartfelt confession, his own heart aching with a mixture of sadness and longing. Tears blur his vision as he continues reading, slightly tracing over your words with his finger. 

I wish I had the courage to say this to you face to face, to witness your reaction and perhaps hear you say the words back. But one thing I admire about you is your ability to live in the moment. So, in this moment, I want to tell you that I love you, Lando Norris, even though I'm no longer by your side. I hope our memories bring a smile to your face, just as they did to mine. 

Please, don’t blame yourself for any of this. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. You're the reason I found joy again, laughter again. Lando, you brought me back to life. Thank you. I'll love you always.

- Your favourite tour guide

As he reaches the final words of the note, he clutches it to his chest, feeling your presence close to him. In that moment, amidst the quiet solitude of the lighthouse, Lando finds a fleeting sense of peace amidst the storm of his emotions. He knows that no matter what the future holds, your love will always remain a guiding light in his heart.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, he whispers a silent promise to you, his beloved tour guide, into the salty breeze surrounding your favourite place. “I’ll never forget you. I’ll carry your love with me, always.” 

Then he adds with a sob wracking through his body, “I love you too.” 

As he sits in the lighthouse, Lando no longer waits for your return. Yet, he feels your love enveloping him, every word of the note etched into his heart. Though you may be gone, your presence lingers, filling the space around him with warmth and tenderness. In that moment, he finds solace in the memories of your love, knowing that you'll always be with him, no matter where life takes him.

Taglist: @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @mehrmonga @nikfigueiredo @wonnou @jointhehunt67 @sya-skies @dreamingonbed @oliviah-25 @heylookwhoitis @unabashedkoalawasteland @inejghafawifesblog @poppyflower-22 @charizznorizz @booksandflowrs @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @randomnessis-mine-me @whatever7justchillin @kagome45 @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @timmy-wife1 @writtenbykirs @lew444 @kansas-kisses @barackosteaa @hellof-1 @itsbwokenln4 @nixily @reengard @candyeollies @customsbyjcg-blog @heeseungthel0ml @sweate-r-weathe-r @mattymybeloved @saturnbloom77 @ltotheucyy @ironmaiden1313

[rafeandonlyrafe]

trust me, kiddo

words: 1.2k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, dddne (tagging just in case), drowning, head dunking, suffocation, noncon/dubcon, p in v sex, unprotected sex, mention of fingering, use of kid/kiddo/slut/whore/bitch, dom/sub dynamics, aftercare

your hands try to get some sort of grasp on the smooth marble counter, eyes glossed over as you look in the mirror over your shoulder.

rafe smirks when he sees your eyes on him, forcing his hips even faster as you grip the edge of the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain so hard you're worried it'll break.

“p-please.” you manage to force out, body shaking every time rafe pushes his cock all the way inside you, so deep at this angle.

“please what kid?” rafe questions, his voice deep and hoarse from fucking you, having walked in on you naked in the bathroom, bathtub filled with warm water, ready for you to soak in. “please stop? please keep going?” 

“i… i don't know.” you admit. rafe pumping his cock into you certainly feels good, but at the same time you're so overwhelmed with pleasure, sure that your legs are soon to give out, even with rafes hands on your hips, helping you stay standing.

“already dumb on my cock baby?” rafe laughs. “but i just started fucking you!”

it's somewhat true, rafe has only been inside you for a few minutes now, but he's been teasing you all day, fingering you just to stop right before your orgasm, letting you ride his thigh only to push you off before you could reach your high.

“i can't.” you whine, feeling your knees wobble. 

“you better, bitch.” rafe grunts, cock digging so deep inside of you that you swear he's bruising your cervix with every thrust.

you try, holding it together only for a few more seconds before your legs crumple, sending you to the ground, rafes cock slipping out of your wet hole. you land on your hands and knees on the cold white tile.

“baby.” rafe groans, his tone anything but sweet, the bite of anger in his voice.

“im sorry.” you whine. “it was too much.”

rafe grabs your waist, dragging you across the floor until you can put your hands on the side of the tub. you try to push yourself up to standing, but your tired legs don't get your knees off the floor.

“jesus, kid.” rafe grabs a towel so he doesn't bruise his knees and drops it onto the floor, having to kneel behind you to continue. “who knew edging you would make you this fucking weak.”

“im sorry.” you call out again, hoping rafe won't punish you.

“yeah, shut up princess.” rafe groans, hands coming to grip your ass, pulling on your plump skin to get a good view of your cunt, already turning a shade of red from his abuse, dripping with wetness.

rafe plunges his cock inside, immediately using the same harsh pace like your body never just gave up. 

“so nice and tight for me.” rafe groans, one hand sliding up to the back of your head, the other staying firmly on your ass. “let's see if you can get even tighter.”

you're confused for a moment, about to ask what he means when the hand on your head pushes down, your face plunging into the water before you can take a breath.

you immediately thrash at the sudden loss of oxygen, body working on autopilot as you try to push against rafes hand, but he's too strong, holding you in the water until you swear you're seconds from passing out, when he finally lets you back up.

you take a deep breath before coughing, hair now dripping wet as his cock continues to pound into you. 

“felt so good to have you squeezing around me like that.” rafe groans, bending over your body as his hand turns your head, bearing your cheek for him to press a kiss to.

“rafe.” you whine, tears falling down your cheeks along with the water from the bath.

“shh, couple more times baby. yeah? you'll do that for me? ill make sure you won't pass out.” rafe coos. you're not sure how he will be able to tell when it's too long, but you know his reaction to being told no isn't worth it, so you simply nod your head and turn your head back down, body now racking with sobs.

you take a deep breath this time before rafe shoves your head back under the water, cunt tightening around his cock when you lose your breath, still thrusting into you rapidly while you struggle to not take an instinctive gulp of the air.

rafe pulls on your hair, hovering your face back over the water as you gasp and sputter, but he doesn't give you much time to regain your breath before shoving your head back under the water.

you thrash again, legs wobbling as water seeps into your mouth, uncontrollably clenching around rafes cock, wishing you didn't so he couldn't get the pleasure he so sickly wanted, but you couldn't help it.

“good girl, shh.” rafe pulls your head up as you cry loudly, pussy still dripping despite rafe cutting off your air.

“one more, okay kiddo? make me cum.” rafe waits a few moments, giving you time to prepare before shoving your head under the water again, your hands gripping at the edge of the tub as you quake, cunt pulsating around rafes swelling cock, signaling just how close he is.

you can hear rafes loud moans from under the water as he gives a few more final punishing thrusts before pressing his hips into your ass, cumming lodged as deep within you as he can, keeping your head under while your cunt milks him.

you're seconds from blacking out, spots overtaking your vision as he finishes with a slap on your ass.

rafe pulls your head out and tugs on your hair so you aren't hovering over the tub. you collapse on the floor, hacking coughs and spitting out water.

“told you that you wouldn't pass out.” rafe smirks down at you from his kneeled position.

“i almost did.” you whine.

“but you didn't. you gotta trust me kid.” rafe leans down, scooping you into his arms before moving to place your body gently in the tub. you sink into the warm water, sighing as your body relaxes.

“want daddy to finger you?” rafe asks. you're surprised, he doesn't usually offer to get you off if you didn't cum, probably his way of partly apologizing for almost drowning you, even if he isn't actually sorry.

“no, will you get in with me though?” your pussy is sore and tired, but you do need rafes love and attention after the intense session.

“aw, does my baby need some aftercare?” rafe coos, but when you scooch forward in the tub, he steps in so you can cuddle up to his chest, his hands stroking over your body gently.

“was it really that good?” you ask after a few minutes of silence.

“yeah, you got so tight and to see you all vulnerable for me,” rafe nods. “real hot.”

“maybe…” your voice is quiet as you drag your finger over rafes thigh. “maybe you could try choking me sometime.”

“yeah, you would like that wouldn't you dirty slut?” rafe chuckles.

“stoppp.” you whine, turning around to pout at rafe, who pulls you in even closer.

“oh shush, you like it when i talk to you this way.” rafe presses his lips against yours, taking your mouth in a kiss. “my little whore.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @emma77645 @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk